


goodbye future once so bright

by going_going_gone



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (actual socialist steve rogers), Alcohol, Alpha Bucky Barnes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Awesome Sarah Rogers, Awkward First Times, Awkward Flirting, Bipolar Disorder, Bottom Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Developing Relationship, Disability, Discussion of Abortion, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Hospitalization, M/M, Male Lactation, Mental Health Issues, Mpreg, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Omega Steve Rogers, One Night Stands, Parenthood, Past Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Politics, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Recreational Drug Use, Relationship Discussions, Sexism, Slow Burn, Socialist Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Top Bucky Barnes, Unplanned Pregnancy, meet ugly, reproductive rights issues, winifred barnes is a lot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:54:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 47,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26984728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/going_going_gone/pseuds/going_going_gone
Summary: Bucky has a tenuous grasp on his shit, but he's doing the best he can despite that. He has goals, a schedule, a plan of attack, just like his therapist recommended.Enter Steve Rogers.Steve Rogers is delighting in the fact that he does not, in fact, have anything close to together. He's spent too long getting fucked over by the universe to delude himself with a notion like that. But he's been rolling with the punches since his mom brought him home from the hospital a month early, straining to breathe.Bucky Barnes is not prepared for Steve Rogers.But fate has a tricky way of playing with its pieces.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 112





	1. thought i was through with this adolescent malice

**Author's Note:**

> So!  
> My first official Stucky fic is also my first A/B/O fic. Well, let's see how this goes folks.  
> This first chapter is the only one I have completely ready right now. I have the rest either partially written, fully written but unedited, or plotted out. Just a warning, because updates might be slow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Edited 2/10/21*

**_September_ **

“You’re going to fucking destroy this semester, Barnes!” 

Bucky nodded along to the words, even if his breath was still coming too fast and the back of his knees felt sticky with sweat. 

“This semester is gonna be your bitch.”

Honestly, most of him felt sticky with sweat. His arm fell heavy at his side, and his entire perception of the world felt shaky and off. God, were the walls supposed to be shivering like that?

“This semester doesn’t even know what’s coming for it!” 

He really should be studying right now. Shivering walls didn’t mean classes weren’t approaching fast. The thought made his teeth ache, and he felt a fresh wash of fear-sweat, emanating prominently from his knee region. Were sweaty knees a symptom of some life-threatening disease?

“Is he-?” Clint muttered.

“Think we lost him,” Tasha replied, voice gruff. She reached out a ragged-nailed finger-her own personal method for coping--and poked him hard in the chest.

Bucky blinked, trying to shake off the persistent wrongness.

“What?” he asked. His voice was scratchy from disuse. Made sense. He’d been holed up in his bedroom for the better part of the week, carefully charting out his daily schedule and doing pre-work for all of his classes. Which was probably why Clint and Tasha had dragged him out to the living room. They’d no-doubt spotted the downward spiral just as it was reaching its zenith. That’s explained the affirmations.

“We were doing the affirmations,” Clint offered helpfully. “I like the affirmations. Can I have some?”

He looked a bit peaky himself, honestly. Bucky had to remind himself that they were all suffering here. Tasha shot the pair of them a sympathetic look, but didn’t ask for her own chants and cheers to propel her through the upcoming semester.

“I think what we all need is a break. This apartment stinks like anxiety and stale coffee,” she said. When Bucky balked at the idea of going outside, she raised a single ginger brow at him. It was enough.

He gulped and tried to reign himself in. A voice that sounded suspiciously like Winifred Barnes scolded him for being afraid of _going outside_. He could practically hear the lecture about responsibility and expectations, about fear. 

_“James Buchanan Barnes, what kind of alpha can’t even deal with the general public? How do you ever expect to-”_

“Barnes!” Tasha said. Her voice was sharp like maybe it wasn’t the first time she’d said his name. “Focus. We’re leaving this apartment.”

“Can we go get pizza?” Clint asked, inevitably. The twin looks Bucky and Tasha sent him were so scathing he literally wilted. “Aw, you guys!”

“If I have to eat pizza again this week I’m going to do something drastic,” Bucky warned. It was only half a joke. The thought of hot cheese and marinara didn’t exactly turn his stomach-he wasn’t a monster-but it had lost its appeal by the third day. “Although, at the rate I’m going, I might do something drastic no matter what.”

Neither of his friends looked very amused by the joke. Bucky sighed. “What did you want to do Tasha? As fun as it was last year, I don’t want to make another appearance at the shitty school-sponsored events.”

Shield of Mercy was a pretty large school, and the crowds that were sure to be scattered across its relatively small campus sounded like the exact opposite of what Bucky needed right now. The very thought of all that open space and all those strangers made him sick. And _there_ were the sweaty knees again. 

God, but he hadn’t always been like this. Time was, Bucky had been the most laid back member of their little trio. Nothing could have shaken him out of his easy disposition in high school. He’s been confident, self-assured, and maybe even a little arrogant. It had been Tasha and him looking after Clint, who seemed to attract disaster at every turn.

How many scrapes had he pulled his best friends out of just by being level headed and cool under pressure?

But now he was this shuddering mass of anxiety and nausea and fucking _sweaty_ _knees_. He was a sorry excuse for an adult and certainly a sorry excuse for an alpha. It had taken everything in him, and all of his friends' support to get through the last two years of college. Why did it feel like the final stretch was such an insurmountable distance? The closer he got to May 9th, the day he’d finally earn his degree and have the rest of his life to panic and suffer, the worse he felt. It was like an ache deep in his chest.

Fuck, he needed to talk to Banner about upping his anti-anxiety meds.

“Don’t say no,” Tasha said, startling him out of his little pity-party.

“That’s a great sign,” Clint muttered. He stood from his crouch in front of the armchair Bucky was tucked in and rubbed his palms against his thighs. The look he was leveling at Tasha was the height of expectation. 

Tasha sent her own fond glare back to her dear, dear boyfriend. “You need to trust me more.”

“Babe, I trust you with my life," Clint laughed, sounding a little bitter. "I don’t, however, trust you with my Saturday night.”

“Why, you didn’t like the biker bar she took us to in July?” Bucky asked. That had been an experience, to say the least. A defective alpha, a beta, and a standoffish omega walk into a grungy alpha bar…

Clint snorted.

“There won’t be a mugging this time,” Tasha assured them. It seemed a bit presumptuous of her, considering they lived in New York. Muggings might have gone down since the 80s, but they weren’t at zero.

God, what if they got mugged? Bucky was not equipped to defend _himself_ , let alone Tasha and Clint. 

“Snap out of it Barnes,” Tasha said. She was smiling now, which wasn’t as comforting as she thought it was. “No one is getting mugged. Laid maybe, drunk _definitely_.”

“High hopefully,” Clint muttered.

“That too,” she said, gesturing carelessly at him. “Hydra Lambda is having a back to school thing. I’d usually turn my nose up at shitty beer and shitty frat guys, but apparently, they got the Art Student’s Union in on it, so there’s gonna be some real culture.”

Bucky blinked disbelievingly at her. “Didn’t the Art Student’s Union try to move to get the Greek System abolished last year?”

Clint laughed. “Yeah. I know a guy who was in on that. He painted this sign that--”

“One of the alumni members donated a bunch of money to the Art program to get them to drop it. Rumor has it they were gonna go to the press about 'cultural issues endemic to Greek life' or something, and it scared the bejeezus out the frat crowd.”

“I...kind of doubt that,” Clint said. “Consequences don’t really _happen_ to those types.”

Tasha shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s what I heard. Anyway, some kid in my poli-sci group chat said it was actually going to be decent. They’ve got cool shit. There’s gonna be a mural.”

“A mural?” Bucky said, completely unconvinced.

“Finger painting,” she replied simply, as if he and Clint were a pair of particularly simple kindergartners.

Bucky turned to share a long-suffering look with Clint and saw his friend's eyes wide with excitement.

“Christ.”

***

  
“Steven Grant Rogers, so help me God!” Wanda was wringing her long black scarf between two thin, fine-boned hands, and Steve got the distinct impression that she was imagining it around his neck. “The party is starting and we’re late already. Stop being stubborn.”

“Wanda, _please_ ,” he snapped. He was hugging his own elbows, glaring up at the Hydra Lambda house like he could set it on fire with his mind. But if he could do that, he would have _months_ ago. And he’d probably wait until it was just frat members inside. He didn’t hold a grudge against unsuspecting (if uncritical) party-goers.

Sam snorted from somewhere behind them. Steve turned to watch him stumble getting the huge round of white paper out of his trunk. Neither Steve nor Wanda bothered to help him. Even if they did, he’d just turn them away anyway.

But that was dumb alphas and their dumb pride for you.

Steve huffed. “I’m sorry, but this is all bullshit. If Loki wants to make nice with these frat assholes, that’s fine, but _I_ for one shouldn’t have to participate!”

“We all have to help, Steve. That’s the point,” Sam responded blandly. No matter that he wasn’t even really _in_ the Art Student’s Union. He was a _Nursing_ major. The only reason he was here was Steve and Wanda. But Sam was Sam, so he was helping despite his own dislike of this particular frat, and carrying all the heavy shit because if he saw his friends struggling he might have a stroke. 

Sam shrugged helplessly and started lugging the ream of paper towards the house. He only stumbled once more, trying to climb the steps. Wanda hurried after him, a bucket filled to the brim with loose paintbrushes threaded through her arm. Steve groaned and turned back to his shitty four-door to grab one of the bags of acrylic paint. They’d fallen out of their bag during the drive.

Steve growled under his breath. This stupid fucking mural was going to drive him insane. 

It wasn’t that Steve didn’t want to be on board for the union’s platforms and their activities. He’d been an active member since freshman year. But it was one thing when the platform included _protesting_ Greek life, and another when it included being part of it even in a small way. Because apparently, it didn’t matter that Greek life was exclusionary and elitist, or that omegas and beta females couldn’t be fully sure of their safety at Greek parties, or that half the frat alphas at Shield were also card-carrying Young Republicans. No, apparently Loki and Coulson, as president and faculty liaison respectively had decided to make _nice_ despite all that.

“Hey sweetheart, is this your car?” 

An alpha male, in perhaps the ugliest plaid shirt Steve had ever seen, leaned out of his own car window, appraising Steve with a barely veiled smirk. Steve stood straight from where he’d bent over the trunk to gather the scattered bottles of paint back into a canvas bag. He leveled an unimpressed look at the alpha. 

“Yes, it is. Why?”

The alpha’s smirk only grew. He wasn’t even trying to hide the way his eyes skimmed Steve’s form. 

“You’re blocking the driveway, sweetheart,” was the reply. 

“We’re almost done,” Steve snapped. He knew he was being sharp, but no one had ever said he was a particularly polite person. Sarah Rogers had taught him to be as kind to people as he could, but not to take any shit. 

He got the feeling that all he would get from this guy was a steaming _pile_ of shit. 

“Sweetheart, I got a party to set up in like five minutes.”

Steve could practically feel his blood pressure sky-rocket at the persistent use of the endearment. “That’s not my name, buddy,” he snapped. “And if you want to get inside _right now_ , you can shove your car up your ass and park it.”

The alpha looked taken aback for a split second, and Steve delighted in still being able to shock people with his insistent bitchiness. But the delight couldn’t last forever. The alpha, car already in park, snapped his door open in a second and was out in the next.

Steve couldn’t stop the brief skitter of panic that went up his spine when he saw just how big his lovely new friend was. Steve couldn’t clear five and a half feet, and this guy was _at least_ six inches taller than that. He was also built like a fucking freight train, whereas Steve was built more like a...bicycle or whatever. Fuck it, he wasn’t an English major, whatever. 

“Anyone ever tell you you got a real smart mouth, _sweetheart_?” the guy practically purred, which was maybe the most obnoxious thing he’d ever heard. Steve couldn’t help rolling his eyes.

Which was maybe not a good way to deescalate the situation, but Steve wasn’t really a de-escalation type, to be honest. If you asked Sam, Steve didn’t even _know_ that word. 

“Yeah, lots of people call me smart. Doubt they do the same for you though.”

The alpha scoffed. “I’m a fucking honor student, you little bitch.”

Steve made a show of looking shocked. “Oh! A sophisticated asshole. My mistake. That’s sad though, that you can’t even blame ignorance for you being a knothead.”

“Move the fucking car, you mouthy cunt,” he snarled back. 

Steve was seeing red. 

Without another word, he slammed the trunk down hard and swung around the body of his car. He pulled the door open with shaking hands. The alpha, apparently happy with his perceived victory, leaned against the door of his shiny Lexus and watched smugly as Steve turned the key. His car’s engine puttered a little before it really started, and Steve basked in the knowledge that he was about the wipe that fucking look off this asshole's face.

Without another thought towards the consequences of his actions, Steve put the car in reverse and gunned it. 

He slammed into the front bumper of the Lexus with such force that the top of his head knocked hard into the ceiling of his car. He barely heard the roar of rage the alpha let out, dizzy as he was, but he couldn’t exactly miss what happened next.

The alpha yanked open his car door and went right for his neck.

***

By the time Tasha had pulled the car up to Hydra house, there was a fucking disaster happening outside. 

He couldn’t even be charitable about it. It was a _literal_ fucking disaster. 

The remains of what looked like a fender-bender were creaking on the street right outside, and a small group of badly dressed frat alphas was hovering around someone while a few art students-you could tell because they were _also_ badly dressed, but in a different way-shouted at them. 

Tasha looked suddenly and intensely delighted, and she’d barely parked before she was out, trying to get in on the drama in whatever way she could. Clint gave a put upon sigh and followed her out at a more sedate pace. Bucky felt like he was being pulled along behind them by a heavy chain around his neck. Whatever this shit-storm was, he really didn’t want to get involved. But alpha instincts could sometimes override his normal state of being: complete and utter panic.

As they got closer the situation became even more confusing. Instead of some lanky, pretentious art student alpha throwing down with a frat guy, as he’d initially assumed, there was a very small, very blonde, and very red-faced omega practically strangling an alpha even larger than Bucky, which was saying something, because while Bucky had the vibes of a particularly anxious small animal, he was over six feet tall and muscled enough to back up his height. 

The art students weren’t even yelling at the frat guys, not really. A willowy red-head dressed in what looked like a raggedy black throw blanket was trying to wrangle the omega off the poor guy, who was equally red-faced as his attacker, but probably from lack of oxygen rather than anger. A handsome dark-skinned alpha was holding his hands out to the other Hydra members and seemingly trying to talk him down. The other art students looked more annoyed than panicked.

Tasha was ecstatic, practically clapping her hands in joy while Clint looked on in concern.

Everything in Bucky’s body told him he did not want to be involved. He wanted to join the crowd of relatively gormless party-goers unaffiliated with either group, standing at the edges just looking perplexed. Or maybe he could just head into the house. But then Tasha bumped shoulders with a Hydra guy and he looked like he was about to throw a punch. Clint stepped in immediately, probably more out of concern for him than Tasha. That jostled the Hydra guys next to Tasha’s new friend, and suddenly there was a ripple of anger traveling through the whole fucking crew. The air filled with the pheromones of at least five pissed off alphas, choking Bucky even though they were out in the open air. 

The tiny blonde was ripped off his opponent with way too much force, leaving the goth girl staggering back into the dirt. This set their alpha friend into even more hysterical attempts at diffusing the situation.

Bucky shot forward, no longer quite so seized by panic, and jerked the alpha holding the blond back by his collar. He was smaller than Bucky by a few inches, but he barely even glanced back, hand coming around the back of the small omega’s neck to squeeze.

“Let him go,” Bucky growled. 

The alpha growled right back, baring his teeth at Bucky. “Fuck off.”

He punctuated his words with a rough shake to the omega in his grasp, who looked so outraged it was almost comical. 

Bucky drew himself up to his full height, trying to use his own presence to stop this before it had to result in more violence. 

“Listen, buddy, I really don’t want to hurt you. Just put the omega down and we can discuss this like grown-ups.”

The alpha laughed harshly. “Why, this bitch yours?”

The omega let out an angry little noise, reaching up to dig his nails into the alpha’s arms. Bucky fought back a wince because his nails looked long, and he wouldn’t be surprised if they broke skin. 

“You should really teach him how to treat his betters.”

“What fucking betters, you scumbag?” the omega squawked. “I hope you’re not talking about yourself.”

“Shut the _fuck_ up!” The alpha gave another rough shake, and there was an edge to his voice, like he was about to do something stupid. Bucky _really_ didn’t want him to do something stupid. 

The commotion had died down a touch behind them, and Bucky prayed that this omega’s alpha friend had been able to talk everyone else down. He didn’t worry for Tasha and Clint-God knew they could take care of themselves, but at this point, he wanted to get fucking drunk and forget tonight.

“Drop him,” Bucky pressed, voice edging closer to desperation. 

“Fine, you want him so bad, fucking have him,” the alpha said, and shoved the omega at Bucky. His arm came up thoughtlessly, and he cradled the strange blond against his chest. The alpha turned on his heel and stormed up the lawn. His friends, including the alpha who’d been on the wrong side of strangulation and was sporting some redness around his throat to prove it, were close behind. Bucky was just relieved he hadn’t had to fight anybody.

He watched the alphas walk away for another beat.

“Let me go, goddamnit!”

Startled, Bucky relaxed his grip on the omega, ready to launch into an apology. The small blond didn’t let him get that far, however. As he opened his mouth, a stormy look passed over his red face.

“I didn’t need any fucking help!”

It took Bucky a second to parse that, blinking stupidly down at the angriest person he might have ever met. “Uh-”

“I had it under control,” the blond insisted.

Bucky shook his head, completely baffled. “I mean, you were about halfway to murdering someone, so if your goal was _murder_ , yeah.”

The blond scoffed. 

“Steven, what the hell were you _thinking_!” the redheaded friend snapped. Her weird black poncho was looking pretty rough and her large dark eyes were frightened. “How do you plan on paying for that car’s repairs?”

“Wanda, you didn’t-”

“I’m sure he was the worst alpha to ever alpha, Steve, but you need to start thinking shit through,” the alpha friend said. He had a stern look on his face, and his well-muscled arms were crossed over his chest.

Tasha and Clint stood a little further back, both of them looking way too bemused for the situation. His friends were the _worst_. Thankfully, the small crowd which had gathered to watch the show had dispersed when it hadn’t gotten bloody, so it was just their small group standing in the now mostly empty yard now.

“If you’re not gonna try to strangle anyone else to death, I’m gonna go inside,” Bucky said.

The look of derision that passed the blond’s-Steve’s-face made Bucky wince. He hunched his shoulders in the face of that look. 

Jesus, this kid was a fucking menace.

“Hey, man,” the handsome alpha friend said, breaking out an apologetic smile. It made Steve throw up his arms with impatience, for some reason. “Sorry about Steve here. He’s a fucking mess.”

“Fuck you, Wilson,” Steve snapped. 

“Sam Wilson.” The alpha offered a hand to shake--the wrong one--and Bucky stared dumbly down at it for a second before Sam took in his appearance and notable lack of a left arm and switched hands. 

Swallowing roughly, Bucky took it and shook it in a perfunctory way. He really did just want to go inside at this point. 

“I’m Bucky,” he offered weakly. All the bravado that his alpha instincts had supplied in defense of the prickly omega had dissapated, and he was left his usual self; that is-fucking _terrible_ at talking to strangers. 

“And I’m Wanda,” the redhead said, nodding. 

“I’m Clint,” Clint offered. The trio of strangers turned, and Sam offered another handshake, which Clint reciprocating with much more enthusiasm than Bucky had. “And this is Tasha.”

“We know each other,” Tasha said, offering Wanda a casual smile. 

Wanda nodded, “You were in Aesthetics with Fitzpatrick last year, right?”

Tasha grimaced. “Unfortunately.”

Sam peered at Bucky. “What about you? I feel like I recognize you from something.”

Bucky shrugged helplessly.

“What’s your major?” Wanda asked, and Bucky’s shoulders seemed to grow even more hunched. He wasn't really capable of small talk right now. 

Steve rolled his eyes. “Didn’t you guys hear him? He wants to go inside.”

If he wasn’t seemingly a complete asshole, Bucky could have kissed him, because he got the feeling that Tasha and Clint were content to stand out here all night chatting with Wanda and Sam and their insane friend. 

“Yeah, I uh…” Bucky shook his head, completely unsure how to continue that sentence. 

“Come on you hermit, let us get you wasted,” Clint sighed, grabbing Bucky’s arm and tugged him towards the house.

“I’ll meet you guys in a bit,” Tasha called after them. When Bucky looked back, she had her arm slung around Wanda’s shoulders and was smiling at Steve despite the mighty frown on his face. 

***

“I admit, I’m a little reckless sometimes,” Steve offered, trying to be good-natured.

Sam looked offended by his estimation of himself, but Natasha was cracking up at him. 

The three of them were crowded under the patio in the back yard of Hydra house, sharing some shitty weed and watching a few couples writhe unattractively in the hot tub. 

After Wanda’s acquaintance had endeared herself to Sam, Steve was hard-pressed to hold her friend’s alpha bullshit against her. Apparently, “Bucky” wasn’t a complete knothead, even if his name was ridiculous. Her boyfriend, Clint, looked like a fucking mess, and it made Steve kind of reluctant to dislike him either. He’d found them about an hour into the party to ask if Natasha if she wanted a light, and when she’d said yes, he’d left and subsequently returned with three joints tucked into a plastic bag before disappearing again. Perhaps to keep Bucky company. 

“What?” Sam asked. “A little reckless?”

“Listen, that alpha was-”

“It’s not even about that anymore, you dumbass. Last month you spent an entire three days fighting on Twitter with some famous podcast guy. You didn’t even stop to _sleep_.”

“That guy was an _asshole_ , Sam,” Steve snapped. 

Natasha laughed. “He sounds passionate, not reckless.”

“Wait until you see him try to punch a cop,” Sam muttered before taking another hit of the joint. He held it for a second, glaring at Steve the entire time.

“Where’d Wanda go, anyway?” Steve asked, trying to get ahead of another rant from Sam about responsibility and knowing your limitations. He knew his limitations, and he didn’t fucking care about them. He’d spent his entire life in this body, he knew he was small and slight, knew he was an omega in an alpha’s world. _Fuck_ knowing your limits, because Steve was gonna fight for more every time. 

Sam handed the joint over, gesturing for some time as he let out the smoke. Before he could answer, however, Natasha did.

“Said she was going to look for some guy. Wizz or something?”

Steve laughed, joint held loosely between two fingers. “Viz? God, I thought they were taking a break?”

Natasha frowned. “Is he bad news?” She said it like she was ready and willing to deliver the beat down on him, even though she only seemed to know Wanda distantly. Steve appreciated that. He liked an omega who not only took no shit-which he could already tell was just the sort of omega Natasha was-but was also ready and willing to defend others.

Before Steve could launch into a rant about how Wanda was way too interesting to be with Viz, who was the least interesting, most repressed person he’d ever had the displeasure of meeting, Sam shook his head. Steve sat back, taking a long hit of the joint while his best friend launched into the drama between Wanda and her stick-in-the-mud. If you could _call_ it drama.

He cast a critical eye over the back yard, taking in the crowd. Other than the fight, and the fact that it was taking place in the Hydra House, he couldn’t really find anything about this party to truly hate. And he wasn’t even really mad about the fight. He knew he’d regret fucking up a Lexus in a few months when the bill came, but he’d been taking extra shifts at Martinelli’s all summer, his mother had gotten a promotion at work so she hadn’t needed any help with rent, _and_ he had a tidy little bundle in his savings which he could part with if he absolutely needed to. Plus, his mother kept harping on him to crack into his father’s life insurance money anyway. For the first time in a really long time, the Rogers's weren’t really hurting financially. If that gave him the freedom to make some knothead’s day hard, he’d revel in it. 

There was the added appeal of some new friends as well. Maybe it was the pot, but Steve’s opinion of Natasha was moving from begrudging approval to thinking she might actually be pretty cool. Sam and Wanda liked her, and that was the best recommendation Steve could think of. 

“What about you? Are you seeing anyone?” Natasha asked, and Steve blinked, assuming he was being addressed. 

But Natasha was sending Sam a smug little smile as he blushed. 

Steve leaned forward, handing the joint of Natasha in a hurry. “What’s that I see? Is that a _blush_ , Mr. Wilson?”

Sam slid down in the chair, throwing an arm over his face, but the damage was already done. “Stop, Rogers, you absolute _monster_.”

“No, no, no! You have to tell me everything!”

Natasha gave a throaty chuckle, apparently pleased to have been the catalyst for Sam Wilson’s humiliation. Steve _definitely_ liked her. 

Sam didn’t remove his arm, but he did seem to take in a bracing breath. “It’s really not anything. But uh… Jesus, Rogers. I don’t know, I guess there’s this guy.”

Steve could barely contain his excitement. Sam had been practically celibate for the last year, focused on maintaining a 4.0 in order to stay at the top of his program. Which was fine, if that was what he wanted, but lately Sam had a habit of making them watch shitty rom coms so he could live vicariously through the awful one-note characters. Steve had caught him sighing forlornly during a particularly sappy jewelry store commercial last week. A relationship was _exactly_ what Sam needed right now. 

“Does this guy have a name? I’d ask if he’s cute, but I mean, he’d have to be to keep up with you,” Steve joked. 

Sam removed his arm and offered Steve a level look. “Flattery isn’t gonna make me spill my guts right now, Rogers.”

“What will?” he asked. “Alcohol? Because I can get that.”

Natasha perked up at that. She’d hit the weed pretty hard, leaving only a little bit left for Sam. “Vodka?” she asked.

Steve giggled. “I will go get vodka if you promise to interrogate Wilson about his _guy_. I need information.”

Natasha’s grin only grew. “You came to the right girl, Rogers.”

He nodded once, rising from his seat with a long stretch. Steve tried not to laugh _too_ hard at the look of abject horror that Sam was sporting as he left Natasha to get whatever she could out of him. 

***

Bucky was not having a good time right now.

In fact, if pressed, he’d go so far as to say he was fucking miserable. 

He was pressed up against the fridge, trying incredibly hard not to look at the couple that was trying to eat each other's tongues right next to him. They’d come in about ten minutes ago and they were blocking Bucky's only way out. He was too uncomfortable to say anything, so he’d been trapped there, trying to be as quiet and unobtrusive as possible. Luckily, he did have direct access to the drinks. Unluckily, he’d probably taken that access a little too seriously, as the room was starting to swim a little at the edges. He wasn’t only a little bit more than buzzed, honestly, but this was not an environment where he felt comfortable letting loose.

Clint had been flitting back and forth to wherever the hell Tasha had gone off to, but his latest trip was taking way too long. He’d been kind of hoping his friend would save him from this hell, but there seemed to be no light at the end of the tunnel. The only thing he had to keep him company was debating with himself about the absolute worst thing that could happen to him right at this moment. 

Bucky was ready to dive headfirst into a few more disaster scenarios, if for no other reason than his brain was otherwise unoccupied and he was bored, but a loud and irritatingly familiar voice rung out through the kitchen.

“Loki, shut up about Rothko. There’s nothing wrong with Rothko!”

Steve, the friend stealing bastard, was arguing-no surprise there-with a lithe, black-haired boy who _seemed_ to be wearing stage makeup. 

The black-haired boy tried to defend himself. “In my opinion-”

“What opinion?” Steve replied cuttingly. “Laufeyson, you’re a theatre major. Leave the fine art criticism to me if you’re gonna try to go off about modern art.”

Steve reeked of weed, eyes bloodshot and half-lidded. If he could still be like this while _high_ , Bucky didn’t understand how he functioned on a day to day basis. 

Loki, Steve’s latest victim, only rolled his eyes, seemingly used to the small blond’s caustic disposition. 

“Where was your attention to expertise when we had that conversation about Brecht last semester? If you want to leave fine art to fine arts majors, leave theatre to theatre majors.”

Bucky perked up, finally finding something at this party more interesting than imagining how badly he’d be trapped if the house suddenly caught fire. 

If Bucky’s preconception of Steve was right, he probably _hated_ Brecht. Bucky bet he had way too much to say about Brecht being didactic and a bunch of other bullshit. Bucky fucking loved Brecht, and he was already fantasizing about how embarrassed imaginary-Steve would be when imaginary-Bucky totally tore him to pieces in an argument about _Mother Courage_. 

Steve had puffed up about two sizes while Bucky was imagining that, face slowly reddening. “It’s not my fault you’re basically a fascist, Loki. You can’t properly appreciate Brecht if you’re diametrically opposed to what he was trying to say.”

Alarmed, Bucky straightened. That was not what he’d expected Steve to say _at all_. He didn’t know whether to be disappointed or taken aback.

Was Steve...not that bad?

More information needed.

Unfortunately, Bucky was unable to properly eavesdrop, because Loki seemingly didn’t take well to being called a fascist. The taller boy huffed and stomped out of the kitchen without another look at Steve. Also, when Bucky had stood to his full height, he’d startled the couple blocking him in. The short omega who was perched on the counter was sending him a full-on death glare as if it was Bucky’s fault she and her partner hadn’t taken the time to make sure their makeout spot wasn't already occupied. 

Steve, now short a person to yell at, strode right towards the couple. “Can you move? You’re right in the way of the drinks.”

The girls got a little huffy, already primed to anger because of Bucky’s perceived creepiness, but Steve just barreled past them and right towards the fridge. 

The fridge Bucky was standing awkwardly close to.

“Oh,” Steve said stopping short.

“Brecht,” Bucky replied, like an idiot.

Steve reeled back further, peering up at Bucky like he was a particularly strange insect. Bucky swallowed. 

“Sorry, uh, you were talking-or really you were yelling? But it seems like you yell a lot-anyway, you were talking about Brecht? And uh, I love Brecht.” 

_Jesus Barnes, what are you trying to achieve here?_

Steve shrugged. “Cool.”

“Sorry, yeah, that was weird. It’s just-I did one of my capstones on Brecht and like-”

“I’m sorry, are you a theatre major?” Steve asked, in the same tone of voice one might ask if someone was a war criminal.

Bucky winced. “No. Um, I’m actually an engineering major. I’m minoring in literature, though.”

Steve visibly relaxed. “How does that even work?”

Bucky let out a little laugh. He’d gotten the question plenty, and it never got any easier to answer. “It doesn’t, really. I don’t know. My dad wanted me to major in engineering, so… But I’ve always loved reading.”

“But don’t engineering majors have like, no electives?” Steve asked. His face had lost that harsh edge, and Bucky suddenly noticed that he had like...really blue eyes. Maybe the bluest eyes ever? 

He swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice from coming out two octaves higher when he answered. “I have like five. I used them on my minor.”

“Well, no one can say you’re not dedicated,” Steve said. He even smiled.

Bucky felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. 

He took a long draw from his beer, trying in vain to calm the racing of his heart. How had he not noticed that Steve was _pretty_? If Bucky was bad with strangers, he was even worse with pretty strangers. In fact, he was actually the _worst_ with pretty strangers. He’d had to sit next to Sharon Carter in Victorian lit last year and he’d made a complete ass out of himself for an entire semester. 

“So you like Brecht. And you're friends with Natasha,” Steve said.

Bucky nodded, still chugging his beer. 

Steve watched him, and maybe he was trying to be impassive, but there was a bemused tilt to his mouth.

Which, Steve’s mouth. God, what a concept. His lips were really pink, and they curved into this pretty little bow as he studied Bucky’s face. 

With a sort of sad resignation, Bucky realized he was completely fucked.

***

Natasha’s big friend was _weird_. 

Steve generally didn’t like to judge people just on how they looked, but rather the choices they made and the impact they chose to have on others. The fact was, he didn’t know Bucky at all. He was on the good side of high right now, and looking back on his escapades at the beginning of the night, he probably shouldn’t have judged the alpha as harshly as he had. It wasn’t like Bucky had done anything explicitly bad. He hadn’t taken the Hydra guy’s side, or even really commented on Steve’s relative mouthiness. He hadn’t gone in guns drawn, ready to fuck another alpha up in defense of some poor, distressed omega. He’d done basically the same thing as Sam, trying to act as a mediator, and Steve had stopped getting pissed off when Sam tried to talk him out of trouble years ago.

So really, Steve had maybe been a bit of an asshole. Bucky was friends with Natasha, who didn’t put off the vibe that she’d be friends with sexist assholes. Steve figured she didn’t take shit, and so Bucky was probably fine.

Plus he was like, _fine_. 

He was big, which was something Steve was periodically ashamed of being attracted to, considering how traditionalist it was to want to be some little wallflower swept into the big strong arms of an alpha. So he towered over Steve, but he held himself like a much smaller man. This was a point in his favor. He was also built thickly, with strong, broad thighs and strong broad shoulders. His waist wasn’t trim, though, like those ridiculous teen-omega fantasy men on tv and film. He was solidly built. Steve’s fingers itched to paint him. Another point in his favor. 

The hair was also...really _really_ good. It was dark sable brown and gathered in an impressively messy bun at the middle of his head. Messy yes, but _clean_. And his face was just, like, objectively hot. He kind of looked like a lost puppy. A handsome, sad, anxious puppy. With really pretty eyes. 

Steve thought he was hot. He had to be clear with himself on that because otherwise, the night was going to get very disappointing very fast. He was an adult and he could admit when he was attracted to someone. 

But he was still very weird. He was standing pressed up against the counter like Steve had pulled a knife on him, eyes wide and panicked. Steve tried to analyze what he’d said, if he’d offended Bucky in some way, but nothing was really raising any red flags. And he’d been eavesdropping on Steve’s conversation with Loki, which fine, because Steve had never developed an indoor voice and he never would. And that was how he revealed he was into Brecht, into literature in general. Plus, he _had_ to be a good student to stay afloat in Shield’s engineering program while also fulfilling a minor. 

So Steve was into this guy, and he wanted to see where this could go because he was high and he hadn’t slept with someone in three months and everyone had needs, but it seemed like everything Steve did sent him into a panic spiral. 

Steve was many things, and his brain was defective in many ways, but anxiety wasn’t really a thing he had much experience with. Wanda had struggled with it in the past, and Steve was as supportive as he could be, but it was so antithetical to his whole shoot first, ask questions later personality. 

With this in mind, Steve attempted some forethought with his next words. “I mean, those are two really great things; Brecht and Natasha. Natasha _seems_ great anyway, because I’ve only known her for a couple of hours but I already kind of want to be her. And if you like both of those things- Or those people, rather, then you have to be pretty great too.”

Bucky drew in a ragged breath, finally putting his beer bottle down. He opened his mouth, perhaps to speak, or maybe to start screaming in fear, but Steve cut him off because that was in no way an apology, which was what he’d _meant_ to be saying.

“Um, I’m sorry about freaking out at you earlier. That was really bitchy, and it’s obvious you were just being a good person, you know not letting me be murdered- _or_ letting me murder someone.” He shrugged helplessly afterward.

Bucky was silent for several seconds, and Steve was afraid he might have broken him. 

But then something sort of passed over his face, a steely resolve that made his pretty eyes turn a wonderful icy grey. Bucky cleared his throat. “I really appreciate your apology. But I should probably-I should definitely offer my own. I didn’t step in because I thought you were incapable. You seem like, way too capable? But I couldn’t just stand there and let him… I mean, he shouldn’t have touched you like that. He shouldn’t touch _anyone_ like that, really.”

Steve felt a rush of affection and he offered his best winning smile in return for that _very_ diplomatic apology. “Yeah, I mean, I guess, but I _was_ sort of choking his friend. So like, _perspective_.”

“I’ve got a feeling you don’t really react like that without good reason.”

Steve laughed. “Not with outright violence, no. And the car thing-that was my fault. I’m not usually like that. Violence like that isn’t usually the answer, but the guy I was choking dragged me out of my car and tried to Hold me so I kinda freaked. I also just hate this place?”

“I’m not a huge fan of Hydra either. I’ve had some... run-ins with their members. Natasha wanted to come though. She thought the Art Students Union being here might make up for the Hydra energy.”

Steve giggled. He hadn’t exactly set out to giggle, but he was going to own that if he could keep Bucky this articulate. “I mean...a little bit? Most of the people here thought the same thing as you, so this isn’t Hydra’s usual crowd. But it’s still their frat. And still, you know, a frat party.”

“Fair.”

***

Steve was not an asshole at all. Or maybe he was, a little bit, but at this point, Bucky didn’t really care. Because Steve was also really smart, and really funny. He has this compelling way of ranting about everything, like even the small stuff was important to him and deserved a well thought out argument fought over it. And he smelled amazing, which Bucky was trying really hard not to notice, but was getting more and more difficult to ignore, because the longer they talked, the closer Steve got. He smelled tart and clean, like fresh linens and citrus. It was an extremely comforting scent. 

Bucky’s posture had relaxed as the conversation developed, the set of his shoulder becoming less and less rigid until he was slumped against the counter, his elbow resting against expensive looking marble. People had been drifting in and out periodically, but they hadn’t been bothered, so he was reveling in this level of ease. He hadn’t felt this relaxed in months. 

Bucky had made his way through a good number of beers, and Steve joined him after a few minutes. Most of his self-control was necessary to keep his eyes from lingering on the way Steve’s lips wrapped around the neck of his beer, but he was buzzed enough not to worry about how he was coming off to the shorter boy. The world felt...softer, somehow. And he didn’t know if he could attribute that to the alcohol or to Steve, but he really wanted it to be Steve. 

Still, there was a part of him that was freaking out because he was Bucky Barnes, and that meant he needed to overthink everything. Plus the voice that lived rent-free in the back of his head and sounded exactly like his mother was at once both thrilled that Bucky was finally engaging in some healthy flirting with an omega, living up to the societal standards of what an alpha should be, but also extremely offended both at Steve’s entire, like _deal_ , and the fact that Bucky was chatting up an omega at a frat party. Steve probably wasn’t even Jewish. 

It probably didn’t say anything particularly good about Bucky that he was kind of reveling in the many things Winifred would dislike about Steve. That had been his thought process when he and Natasha had dated in high school too. That was an assuredly unhealthy way of approaching his own sex life. 

And then Bucky was imagining sex with Steve. That was bad, but also really really good. Bad because Steve was literally talking, and it was incredibly rude to ignore someone who was talking to you in order to imagine having sex with them. Good because Steve was probably really good at sex. Steve was probably good at lots of stuff (but especially sex).

Bucky had no idea if he was good at sex. He’d had sex with plenty of people when he was in high school, but that really didn’t count because boys in high school were not good at sex and also because that was years ago. His sex life had atrophied since he’d lost his arm, and he’d had normal adult sex with exactly one person in the last five years. It was Natasha, and they’d broken up a week later, so what the hell did that say about his sex abilities>

He was probably awful at sex. 

It took every iota of rationality in his body to fight the urge to get his phone out immediately and call Natasha. Checking in with his best friend/ex-girlfriend about his sexual ability while talking to a person that he maybe wanted to have sex with was a bad idea. It was ridiculous that he had to tell himself that.

“Are you okay?” Steve asked. Who _knew_ what his face was doing, to make Steve sound that concerned.

“Yes, yeah I’m fine. Just-Like, God, fuck-” Bucky cut himself off because he sounded like an absolute train-wreck.

Steve giggled again, which was incredibly attractive of him to do. His laugh sounded like bells ringing. It was higher than his voice. He shook his head like Bucky had actually done something funny, rather than embarrassing. “Damn. I thought we’d gotten past the awkwardness.”

Bucky let out a laugh that sounded less like a laugh and more like a dying bird. “One thing you should know about me-it ain’t ever gonna get less awkward.” 

“I guess that’s fine,” Steve said. “Your cute enough to wade through some awkwardness.”

“I’m-sorry, um, I’m cute?” Bucky asked, just to clarify. Because it was _really_ good that Steve thought he was cute. 

Steve nodded, looking suddenly earnest. “More than cute, honestly. Like, smart and shit too. Which is good.” He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. Bucky was shocked to see him look nervous. In the short time he’d known him, he’d come to the perhaps erroneous decision that Steve didn’t get nervous. But maybe he just seemed amazingly confident in the face of Bucky’s enormous amount of anxiety. Who could say?

Seizing on the brief flare of boldness that Steve’s vulnerability offered him, Bucky spoke.

“Can I kiss you?”

***

He didn’t think before moving. What was there to think about? Bucky was hot and Steve was drunk and what the fuck was college for anyway, right?

Steve strained on his toes, because Bucky was still tall enough when slouching against the counter to tower over Steve, and also because Bucky seemed completely unprepared for the answer to his question to be _yes_ , and he wasn’t leaning forward _at all_.

It took a few seconds for him to get with the program, too, so Steve grabbed the collar of his shirt and tugged roughly until the big handsome idiot was bending towards him, eyes still wide and frightened. 

It was suboptimal. Steve had gotten a little excited, and Bucky was not at all ready, so their teeth clacked hard enough for both of them to wince. But after a beat, maybe because Steve was pushing forth with enthusiasm, Bucky got with the program.

It was relatively chaste, both keeping their mouths firmly closed, but that didn’t stop Steve from reaching up and getting a firm grasp on Bucky’s shoulders, rubbing thoughtfully at the soft fabric of his sweater. He could get behind a man who liked comfortable textiles. 

As the kiss deepened, he expected Bucky to get bolder, but that was not the case at all. His hand didn’t move from its grip on the edge of the counter, and Steve was sorry for it, but other than physically putting it on his body, he couldn’t really think of a way to signal that touching was okay. _More_ than okay. 

He took a risk, opening his mouth and licking teasingly at the seam of Bucky's lips. It elicited an odd noise from the alpha, before, finally, his hand snapped away from the counter and came to rest feather-light on Steve’s hips. 

Bucky sighed into the kiss, opening up slightly, and Steve chased that, licking into his mouth with an aggressive sort of confidence he didn’t really feel. He got the vibe that Bucky was inexperienced or otherwise out of practice, and while that might be equal measures hot and intimidating, mostly it was just inconvenient. He wasn’t really _doing_ anything, his tongue sitting at the bottom of his mouth like he was afraid of offending Steve, like he had to pretend he didn’t have a tongue or something. He was also tense all over. Each time the sounds of the party throughout the rest of the house rose, he seemed to pull back a bit. 

With a small groan, Steve pulled away. “Is this okay?” he asked, studying Bucky’s face.

He looked fucking adorable. His eyes were wide and startled, but there was a tiny smile on his face like he’d been pleasantly surprised by the fact that Steve _wanted_ to kiss him. “Yes,” he breathed. “That was _really_ okay.”

Well, really okay could mean lots of things, unfortunately. 

“Do you wanna...sorry, but do you wanna go somewhere more-” Steve stalled. 

He really didn’t know what his aim was here. On one hand, he had the suspicion that Bucky wouldn’t loosen up while they were still in a common area. On the other hand, he really didn’t know if he had room in his life for sex in a frat house right now. If he ended up wanting to stop, he didn’t think Bucky would press him, but he also didn’t want to sour anything between them, because Bucky seemed really cool. 

Bucky let out a shaky humming noise like he was thinking. That seemed like a good sign. Steve pulled back enough to finish what was left of his beer, studying Bucky’s face carefully. 

“I haven’t really…” Bucky began, but he shook himself. There was another pause as Steve carefully set his empty on the counter by Bucky’s right hip. “Look, I haven’t really done anything like this in a while. So like, you know, I don’t know if I-”

“That’s fine,” Steve cut in. “Or, sorry. What I mean is--neither have I. And I don’t even know how far I want to take this. So it’s good. Right? That we’re kind of on the same page?”

His words seemed to have done the trick, because Bucky relaxed immediately. With a gusty sigh, Bucky nodded fervently. “It’s perfect. I would, I do, I want to go somewhere with you. Somewhere private. Where we can do whatever.”

“Whatever we both want,” Steve nodded, offering an uncharacteristically shy smile. 

“Right.”

***

It was disturbing how easy it was to get into other people’s bedrooms in this house.

Bucky hadn’t even had to jiggle the doorknob or anything. Whoever stayed here, knowing there would be a party tonight, hadn’t even bothered locking their door, which seemed incredibly irresponsible. He told Steve this, who laughed.

“They probably had the same idea as us and didn’t want to have to waste time unlocking the door,” he explained when Bucky only shot him a confused look.

“Oh. Should we-do you wanna go somewhere else?”

Head cocked, Steve studied Bucky. It made him kind of uncomfortable, like he was under a microscope, but it also kind of turned him on. He could feel the way his cock was beginning to swell in his jeans, the discomfort ticking up as he took in Steve’s big blue eyes, inquisitive and sharp, and the way his pretty pink lips pursed in thought.

“Why? Who knows if we’ll find another door unlocked.”

Right. Smart.

The awkward dance of arranging themselves on the bed took several minutes. Bucky tried to ignore the room at large, which smelled depressingly off Axe body spray and desperation, in favor of watching Steve settle himself against the headboard. Once they’d gotten comfortable, Steve turned slightly and laid a soft hand against Bucky’s hair. Unconsciously, he leaned into the touch, eyes narrowing to slits. The smile that spread across Steve’s face looked soft, and he couldn’t help leaning forward to kiss him.

This kiss was better than their first. For one, Bucky wasn’t inwardly panicking every time he heard evidence of other people because the noise of the party was muffled on the second floor. For another, he didn’t feel the weight of unwanted expectation hanging over his shoulders.

Suddenly, it was like riding a bicycle. Everything he’d learned from his high school stumbling slipped back, and he let his hand brush along the back of Steve’s head, carding fingers through soft blond hair. 

Things only got better from there. Steve brought his hands back to Bucky’s shoulders, gripping them firmly as he pushed slightly, nudging Bucky to lay back on the bed.

Bucky went along with it, only pausing in their kiss to marvel at the sight of Steve swinging a leg over his hips to straddle him. He was hyperaware of where their hips met, the hot pressure against his cock, the slight press of Steve’s own erection sending a burning thrill down his spine.

It really could only look up from there.

Bucky drew Steve’s face back down to his, and he was the one to deepen the kiss this time, tongue finally daring to reach out and explore Steve’s mouth. He tasted like weed and shitty frat beer, but it didn’t even matter, because then Steve was moving his hips, and the rough friction that caused against Bucky’s cock was basically miraculous. He groaned low in his throat, hand scrambling to Steve’s waist so he could knead at the soft flesh there.

Steve let out a little whine against his mouth when Bucky accidentally rucked his shirt up and his fingers touched actual skin. Another hot thrill shivered through him, and he couldn’t help but push up further. His hand brushed against Steve’s chest, running lightly over a perky little nipple.

Pulling back, Steve gave him a sinful little smile. Without a word, he shucked his shirt, and Bucky’s eyes flew down to look at his chest. The very sight made his mouth water. He leaned forward to get a taste, but Steve tutted.

“Shirt off, big guy,” he purred.

Bucky hesitated for a moment, and he felt his brain beginning a mini downward spiral. It was a fucking herculean effort to stop that in its tracks. Steve knew he didn’t have an arm-it was beyond obvious that he didn’t have an arm. It didn’t fucking matter.

He sat up, jaw set, and roughly yanked at the collar of his shirt until it was over his head and then completely off. He didn’t pause to take in Steve’s reaction, ducking in to suck a mark against the creamy expanse of Steve’s shoulder.

Steve let out an impatient sound, pushing Bucky back flush against the bed with a particularly dirty grind of his hips. Bucky groaned, falling back almost involuntarily. He could practically feel Steve’s eyes on his body, but he just closed his eyes, trying to get his breath under control.

After looking his fill, Steve left an open mouth kiss against his sternum, before trailing little kitten licks up to his throat that set Bucky’s blood on fire.

“You’re way too hot,” Steve whispered. “It’s completely fucking insane.”

Bucky ignored the blush that set on his cheeks in favor of rubbing up and down Steve’s side. “You’re the prettiest person I’ve ever seen,” he replied honestly. 

Steve’s breath against his chest shifted. After one last kiss to the skin behind his ear, Steve sat up.

“If you want to have sex with me, I would also really like that,” he stated plainly. 

Bucky’s hand spasmed a little at its place on Steve’s hip, gripping perhaps a little too hard for just a split second before he let up on the pressure. His hips jerked up, and he reveled in the way it made Steve bounce in his lap. It had the added bonus of making Steve hiss and thrust down, a mirror of Bucky for one glorious moment. 

“Yeah,” Bucky moaned. “Yes. Sex. I would--”

Steve ground his hips down again, grinning victoriously. “Yes to sex?” he asked.

Bucky nodded, incapable of words.

Steve took this information in for a moment, eyes scanning the length of Bucky’s body like he was devising a strategy. “Can I be on top?”

Bucky blinked. His brain froze on that image, leaving him silent for way too long. Steve’s smile faded, and there was an edge of impatience there that terrified him.

“Fuck,” Bucky growled. “God, yes.”

It was really the only thing he could think to say, and thankfully Steve’s expression cleared in an instant.

Without any more preamble, he shuffled off of Bucky, hands going straight to his fly. Bucky took that cue, his own hand sliding across the bed and flicking the button of his jeans open in a practiced movement. He slid his zipper down carefully, mindful of the throbbing length of his cock. He watched avidly as Steve shimmied out of his pants, kicking them off the bed. He was wearing simple white panties underneath, and they were objectively boring, but the sight of them went straight to Bucky’s dick. He hissed through his teeth, wriggling slightly to push his pants and boxers down his legs all in one go.

He ignored his dick where it sprung up after it was freed of his clothes, instead choosing to focus on Steve as he slid those white panties off his hips, revealing his glistening pink dick. It was smaller than his own, typical of omega males, and the most erotic thing Bucky had ever seen. His mouth watered at the sight of it. 

When they were both free of clothing, Steve clambered back over him, although he rested more carefully back on the tops of Bucky’s thighs, eyes caught on Bucky’s cock. 

The feeling of eyes on him made his brain go fuzzy. When he realized that Steve was reaching out to touch it, he thought he might go fucking blind.

***

Steve stared down at Bucky’s cock, aching to taste it. But he held off, unwilling to put off his own pleasure right now.

He reached out and took it in his grip gently, giving it a single pump. Bucky let out a please growl, and his own hand seemed to drift unconsciously towards Steve’s ass, fingers brushing delicately against his cleft. Steve shivered and leaned back, letting his hand get solid contact. He was leaking slick, his pheromones filling the room. It created a feedback loop, his scent turning him on, which only sent more out into the room.

“I’m good to go,” he murmured. Bucky’s eyes had gone a little hazy, and Steve wanted to check in before they went too far.

Bucky’s hand kneaded at the meat of his ass as he nodded. “Yeah,” he rasped. “ _Fuck_ , you’re so pretty.”

That last bit seemed to have slipped out, but Steve couldn’t help smiling at the sentiment. He leaned forward and brushed a kiss across Bucky’s chest before leaning up onto his knees and shuffling forward a bit. He reached behind himself and grasped at Bucky’s cock before painstakingly guiding it towards his slick soaked hole. 

He took the first inch like a fucking champ, his body leaking slick to ease the way, but then Bucky-the stupid sweetheart-jerked his hips up reflexively.

Steve yelped, his hole spasming at the too-quick intrusion, and Bucky’s hand flew to his hips.

“Sorry- sorry!” he gushed. Steve held up a finger and took in a deep breath, trying to get through the pain before he continued.

“It’s fine,” Steve finally answered. He bore down, taking a little bit more once the stretch had lessened.

Bucky seemed to be holding himself rigid to keep it from happening again, and Steve blushed at his sweetness. He reached down and patted Bucky’s face. 

“Really, big guy, it’s okay. I know it wasn’t on purpose.”

Bucky’s small smile in reply urged Steve on. He rocked his hips, sliding down inch by inch. It was uncomfortable, not only because it had been a while, but also because Bucky was kind of fucking big, his cock being extremely proportional to the rest of him. 

Once he’d taken Bucky to the root, they both stilled, simply staring down at each other with a giddy sense of relief. The hard part was over.

Hesitantly, Steve shifted his hips again, and Bucky met him with his own soft thrust a little too late, rhythm slightly off. He smiled indulgently and rolled his hips once more.

When Bucky met him late again, Steve began in earnest, hoping that they’d get the hang of it once he set an adequate pace.

This was not the case.

Steve rocked forward again and again, and again and again, Bucky fucked up his rhythm. It was awkward.

They fumbled for a few seconds before Steve let out a gusty breath. 

“Um, do you want to--”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said at the same time, visibly cringing. 

“It’s really fine,” Steve assured him. “I was just- Uh, I was wondering if you just wanted to be on top? It’s not a big deal. Just…maybe that might be easier?”

Bucky nodded slowly, blushing hard, probably out of embarrassment. Steve carefully climbed off before kind of collapsing beside Bucky, who didn’t move for a second too long. When he finally did, it was awkward. He sort of slumped over, body covering Steve’s almost completely.

That’s hadn’t exactly been his intention, but he rolled with it, trying as hard as he could to be supportive. Bucky was a great guy, and Steve knew how fucking humiliating sex could be sometimes. 

With stilted movements, Bucky reached down between their bodies, and Steve canted his hips to line his hole up more easily with Bucky’s cock when he felt the blunt pressure at his perineum instead of where it was actually supposed to be. He repressed his wince.

Thankfully Bucky sunk in way more easily this time, because Steve had already opened himself up on his cock. 

With Bucky in control, he began thrusting in earnest. He was considerate enough to use his arm to keep Steve’s hips tilted up.

It was good that he was reacting so well to nonverbal cues, because Steve felt so awkward that he didn’t know if he could be as vocal as he usually was in bed. 

With their new position in place, it was a little easier. Steve could meet Bucky’s thrusts as much as possible while in missionary, and his legs crept up until his knees were resting high on Bucky’s hips and he gripped hard onto his shoulders.

The soft slap of skin against skin filled the room, and Steve felt his arousal surge back. He panted hard against Bucky’s neck, tongue peeking out to taste his sweat.

“Can you- _unh_ -can you go faster?” he asked, voice soft against Bucky’s skin.

The alpha grunted in response, and his hips snapped forward accordingly, but the angle was wrong. With each thrust, he _just_ missed Steve’s prostate, sending abortive little shivers down Steve’s spine as the pleasure remained just out of reach. He found himself clutching at Bucky’s sides as he tried to redirect the thrusts in search of that pressure.

“You’re so fucking warm,” Bucky growled against his skin, and with the next thrust, just briefly, his cocked slammed directly into Steve’s sweet spot. “Tight, _fuck_ , so fucking gorgeous.”

The drawn-out whine that elicited seemed to spur Bucky to repeat the move, thankfully.

His nails sunk into strongly muscled skin and he moved his hips with each of Bucky’s thrusts.

“Yes, please,” Steve moaned. “Please-- _ah_ \--please, right there.”

With the much more pleasurable angle achieved, each thrust of Bucky’s hips sent Steve tumbling towards the edge. He tried to keep his volume under control, tried not to call out too loudly, but he could feel the powerful muscles of Bucky’s core against his legs and it was maybe the hottest thing ever. He could also feel the telltale swell of an alpha’s knot as it grew inside his channel, and it sent a frenzy of hormones tumbling through his body.

Just as Steve began to crest, Bucky’s knot popped. He kept moving with the now limited range he had, grinding filthily into Steve, and _thank God_ , because with his knot Bucky was hitting his prostate with _every_ fucking move. 

Steve’s breaths were ragged little huffs against Bucky’s next for the next several seconds before finally, blissfully, he came.

His hole clenched tight around Bucky’s knot, and Steve was so out of it for his first orgasm with another person in months he didn’t even notice Bucky had come too until after he’d come down. 

“Uh,” Steve panted. “How long--”

“Like fifteen minutes,” Bucky supplied faithfully as he settled his weight atop Steve.

“Can we like, get on our sides? You’re kind of heavy.”

It seemed like that hadn’t occurred to Bucky previously, because he startled, shifting his weight to his single arm before painstakingly gathering Steve against his chest and turning them none-to-gently onto their sides. It made his knot tug almost painfully at Steve’s hole, and they both hissed at the unnatural sensation.

“Sorry,” Bucky said breathlessly. 

Steve only offered him a pat on the shoulder in acknowledgment. 

“So how’d you meet Clint?” Steve drawled. He smiled against Bucky’s skin. 

It took way too long for Bucky to realize he was joking. When he did, he groaned good-naturedly. 

“You’re kind of an asshole, aren’t you?”

“Kind of? Don’t be rude. I’m completely an asshole,” Steve muttered.


	2. it takes a part of me I don't got to take some things in stride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! So, I thought I'd ask if anyone would be interesting in betaing this thing for me? There's only so much self-editing I can do before the mistakes just stop registering, and I hate going back to reread something and realizing that there's like five massive typos. if you're interested, hit me up on tumblr! I'm its-a-harlequinade
> 
> Also, another small thing: in this story Bucky is jewish. My mother is Jewish, but I wasn't really raised particularly religiously, so if I get anything wrong about that throughout this story please don't hesitate to let me know.
> 
> chapter warnings:  
> discussions of abortion/reproductive rights talk (this is in the very opening section to be clear)  
> Negative self-talk  
> internalized ableism  
> vomiting
> 
> description of warnings in the end notes
> 
> *Edited 2-11-2021*

_September and October_

It was only 11:30 am, and Steve’s arms were already trembling with the effort to hold up his side of the banner, the sun was beating down on the back of his neck, which, incidentally, he’d forgotten to apply a generous layer of sunscreen to, and his throat ached from yelling. The air was also filled with the sour note of angry omega, beta and alpha. The soup of bad pheromones probably wasn’t doing anyone any good, but at least it was unpleasant for the people trying to pass them.

All in all, it was a pretty great day. 

Squinting past the sun in his eyes, Steve glanced over at Wanda to check if she was still fine. He caught her mid-impassioned shout. The noise of the crowd made it practically impossible to check up on each other verbally, but luckily Sam was trailing just behind them with his own poster board in case either of them was tripped up by the bustling people.

They were protest frequent-flyers, so Steve didn’t really think anyone was in immediate danger, but Natasha was supposed to be meeting them at noon, tentatively with Clint in tow, so they’d had to post up right next to the courthouse where the mass of people was thickest instead of dispersing through the nearby streets. 

“Our bodies, Our choice!” Wanda shrieked loud enough for Steve to wince, but he only set his jaw and joined her chant. “Make abortion legal!”

“Safe, Legal, Accessible,” was scrawled out across their banner in thick black paint, because while Steve had always had an eye for aesthetics, he didn’t bother with trills on his picket signs. There’d be no pretty packaging on his message.

When the campus omega rights groups had heard that Governor Pierce would be giving a talk at Shield to start the semester, they’d jumped on the chance to stage a reproductive rights protest, and Steve had been handing out pamphlets all orientation at the Art Student’s Union booth for it. Coulson might be a bootlicker when it came to Greek life, but he was pretty cool about this sort of thing. That made sense, considering a good portion of his union membership had a uterus. 

Wanda had informed Natasha about the event the morning after the party at Hydra house, and while Steve was a little uncomfortable with it-Bucky had sort of gone non-verbal after they fucked, and they hadn’t even exchanged numbers-he _did_ really like Natasha, so he’d forwarded all the details and made the strong suggestion she bring a big fucking sign. 

Regardless of the fact that it affected Steve personally as an omega, he’d always thought abortion should be a fundamental right to everyone who could get pregnant. It had been a given in his household despite the legal status. Sarah Rogers wouldn’t teach anything else, no matter how often she attended mass. There was the added fact that Steve Rogers despised Alexander Pierce passionately. When the slimeball had run last year under a progressive platform, Steve had begrudgingly voted for him, even though he was largely suspicious of electoral politics. It hadn’t even been a month into his governorship that he’d walked back his call to legalize abortion. He’d promised to fight for them, and then he simply caved. His mom and Sam had had to sit there for an hour with Steve and Wanda when they cried about it. 

So every word of Pierce’s speech that was drowned out by chanting and shouting felt like some tiny bit of payback. It wasn’t everything, sure, but it did feed the angry little pit in Steve’s chest.

“Hey, does anyone know how to get in to see the Governor?” a voice shouted from behind him. Steve’s head whipped around. “I’ve got a sign to shove up his ass.”

Natasha was lugging a huge poster board, hastily glued onto what looked like a wooden meter stick. In glistening purple paint, Natasha-or Clint-had written “Abortions: On-Demand & Without Shame”. 

Steve grinned, raising his side of the banner a little higher. “On-demand and without shame!” he screamed. A few of the protestors around him repeated the shout, and he heard the words echo for another few moments. 

They stayed for a few more hours, until Pierce’s security team ushered him past the crowd and into a waiting SUV. There were a couple more events planned for afterward, but one of them was specifically for Omegas without _any_ Beta input which felt very exclusionary, and another was being presented by the Christian Mother’s League, and they were probably more likely to advocate for family planning than actually argue for legalized abortion. They’d agreed as a group that both were supremely skippable.

“Have you two been to the diner on Ditmas?” Sam asked, as soon as they’d gotten far enough away to be clearly heard. 

Steve rolled his eyes because Sam was constantly trying to get people as obsessed with Martinelli’s as he was. Maybe it was because he’d been working there since high school, but Steve had really gotten over the charm of the place. That didn’t stop Sam from insistently recommending it to everyone he started even a passing acquaintance with. 

As if he could read his train of thought, Sam pressed on with his usual joke. “Warning, though, Steve works there so the service is shit.”

Clint chuckled. “Not today though, right? So we should be fine.”

“Oh, no. All the waitstaff is as awful as I am,” Steve assured them because that was his line in this little two-man act with Sam. 

“Don’t let him fool you, they’re all sweethearts. But Steve got the job because they needed a little shit to fill out the roster.”

Wanda grimaced at their antics. “They do this every time,” she told Natasha and Clint. “I promise it’s not as charming the hundredth time.”

“Oh, you should hear the song and dance in our apartment when Clint and Bucky argue about what we’re ordering for dinner. They have _very_ strong opinions about take-out,” Natasha said. 

Sam, apparently satisfied that no one was going to put up a fight about eating at Martinelli’s, started herding them down the street. It was far enough away that Steve was a little irked at having to walk, but it wasn’t really efficient to take the train, so he kept quiet.

“ _Speaking_ of Bucky,” Wanda began, and Steve had to force himself not to elbow her in the stomach. “Was he just held up, or…”

The look on Clint and Natasha’s faces were at once uncomfortable and concerned. 

“Bucky had a meeting with his lit advisor. He’s taking an independent study to cover a requirement he couldn’t fit in,” Natasha supplied information dutifully.

Clint winced. “Poor guy, I think he might be the most overworked person I’ve ever met.”

“Why didn’t he just do lit full time?” Steve asked. “He seems way more into it than engineering.”

Natasha huffed. “Winifred and George Barnes have _ideas_ about how he should live his life.”

“Aw, Tasha, don’t be like that. Bucky likes his major just fine,” Clint soothed.

It was obviously a well-trod topic, and Steve really didn’t want to say anything without knowing more, but he really couldn’t imagine his ma ever dictating his life to him like that. Sarah Rogers was a necessarily practical woman, but she knew Steve had a passion for art and had encouraged it since he was a little boy. He doubted it had ever even occurred to her to pressure him into studying something else. Who knew how far he would have made it in college if he was doing something he hated. Passion and choice were both intrinsic facets of his life, and slogging through something that contradicted either felt alien. 

On some level, however, Steve understood that his experience was not universal. Sam’s mother, the wonderful woman that she was, had pressed him to consider med school for the entirety of his senior year of high school, even if nursing was more his speed. It had taken a frank discussion between the pair before that had stopped. 

But then, parents weren’t any more enlightened than flighty 20-somethings, and each group stumbled their way through life-changing decisions relatively blind. There wasn’t a helpful guide on how to set up your future, and there wasn’t a guide to not fucking up your kids. If there was, the world would probably be a fucking paradise. He didn’t know what Bucky or his parents felt about his college career and his workload, but Steve didn’t have any more mind-blowing insight than the next idiot rhapsodizing about passion on the street in Brooklyn. 

“You guys better be pumped,” Sam crowed from the head of the group, dreams of pancakes and Mrs. Angie pinching his cheeks ruining his usual social graces. “The pumpkin roll at Martinelli’s are gonna absolutely _send_ you.”

“Send us where?” Steve heard Clint mutter in Natasha’s general direction. 

He cracked up.

***

Steve was going to absolutely destroy this semester. Like an absolute genius, he’d gotten all his gen eds done in his first few semesters, so his schedule was balls to the wall, packed full of his top choice art courses with his favorite professors. Dr. Erskine’s class, which Steve and his fellow art majors had dubbed “Mixed Media Madness” was a particular favorite, and after today’s session with a tricky linocut piece, he’d been flying high. And _then_ , Erskine had not so subtly placed an application for the coveted Rambeau Foundation Showcase on his station, and Steve was all the way up in the stratosphere.

The Rambeau showcase wasn’t exclusive, per se, but they did have some high expectations for applicants. Not only did you need to have a solid portfolio before you could even think of applying, but you had to submit an audition piece in addition to the actual exhibition piece. It also had a huge impact on your after-college prospects. It excepted candidates from all five boroughs, so he couldn’t rely on being a medium but talented fish in a small pond. Still, the fact that Erskine had even presented the application to him said something. 

He was ready to race home and shove the application in his poor mother’s face and squeal with joy for an hour, but a text from Sam stopped him from fleeing campus. 

**_coffee date rn. get ur ass in here._ **

Sam knew his schedule, as well as Steve did, so there was no doubt that he really did mean right now. It was also inarguable that he meant coffee at The Rainbow Bridge. That was Sam’s favorite place, besides Martinelli’s, because he was half in love with the gruff alpha woman that manned the counter. Although now, with the introduction of someone other than Val into his previously nonexistent love life, maybe that crush could be set aside, because while Sam was pretty much the total package, Val didn’t seem even a little partial to him. Or anyone, honestly.

He raced across campus, fluttery insides spurring him onward, and was just in time to see Bucky creeping awkwardly away from a table that held way more than Sam towards the bathroom in the back of the coffee shop. Bucky, who seemed to have been avoiding him for quite some time.

Natasha was calling something Steve couldn’t hear after him, and he waved a dismissive hand in response.

It had been almost a month since the party, and for all that Natasha and Clint had quickly become a staple in their lives, rounding their trio out into a quintet, their erstwhile roommate-and Steve’s one-night-stand-was rarely around. He’d made an appearance at a movie night Sam had put together last Saturday, but he’d only stayed for part of the first movie, begging off to do something studying before around 10 pm. And while he’d been unfailingly polite in the face of Steve’s attempts at conversation, nothing about his vibe invited discussions of what had transpired between them. 

Steve wanted to trust Natasha when she said he was a good guy-although she didn’t know that they’d hooked up and then Bucky had basically ghosted him-but it felt like a pretty harsh brush off from his perspective. Sure, the sex hadn’t exactly been mind-blowing, but it also wasn’t the worst he’d ever had. Bucky had been funny and sweet and receptive to criticism, which was Steve’s top three necessary traits for anyone he was considering sleeping with. If Bucky didn’t want to do anything like it again, he understood, but it was fucking bizarre that he wouldn’t even make himself available to discuss it.

Even three weeks later, Steve was baffled by his behavior. 

When he’d discussed it with Wanda, she’d been surprisingly sympathetic. Maybe Natasha had told her something he didn’t know, but she’d been encouraging him to find a way to talk it out with Bucky.

Screw that. Wanda just thought he needed a relationship. 

But he wouldn’t let Bucky’s oddness cramp his style. He was excited right now. He couldn’t wait to tell Sam about the Rambeau Showcase. Even if he hadn’t even applied yet, he was just excited by the prospect of it. 

“You guys look you’re having fun,” Steve mock-complained when he’d reached the table. Nat and Clint were squished into the corner, Wanda was right next to them, and Sam had his arm-his arm!-slung around the broad shoulders of a handsome blonde guy Steve didn’t recognize. This had to be the mysterious guy Sam had mentioned weeks ago and then refused to discuss again, even when Natasha put the hurt on during game night last week.

Clint was the only one who looked even kind of apologetic. “We didn’t realize you were in class. Everyone just happened to be free at the same time.”

Steve shrugged, nonplussed. “So…” he began, and turned even while he found his seat, to stare pointedly at Sam.

His best friend in the entire world didn’t even have the grace to look guilty. In fact, the grin he turned on the blonde guy could shame the sun. “This is Riley,” he said simply.

Steve rolled his eyes at his friends and reached across him to offer a hand to shake to _Riley_. “I’m Steve.”

“Best friend Steve!” Riley exclaimed. He had a slight southern accent and brown eyes that seemed to dance. Steve already kind of liked him. “From what I hear, you’re fine as frog hair.”

While the table tried to process that, Sam frowned slightly, “Don’t say that, Riles, we don’t want him to get a big head.”

“He already has a big head,” Wanda snorted.

Steve leaned back in his chair, throwing on a theatrical pout. “I don’t know why you’re all so mean to me. I had some good news, but I think I might die of a broken heart before I can give it.”

Sam perked up a bit and looked like he was about to grill him for information, but Bucky had sidled back up to the table, standing awkwardly at the edge of the group and staring down at the only empty chair left, which was right next to Steve’s. 

Steve stared at him, eyes narrowing a smidgen. Bucky’s face was flushed, and his eyes kept darting around like he was expecting an attack. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Bucky was not the guy who’d had his dick _inside him,_ the way he was treating simply having to sit beside Steve.

It wasn’t like he was a live grenade, _Jesus_.

“Buck, sit _down_ ,” Clint laughed, the picture of bemused exasperation.

It broke the tension in Bucky’s shoulders, who slumped down gracelessly into the chair, folding his hands into his lap and staring down at the tabletop.

Steve hummed thoughtfully, once again baffled by Bucky Barnes. 

Sam was quick to throw off the awkward silence. “Steve, _news_ ,” he ordered.

“Alright, alright,” Steve placated, “Do you remember the student showcase I was talking about last semester? The one Ann-Marie was in?”

Wanda leaned forward suddenly, eyes widening. He feared a second that she was going to step on his moment, but she remained silent, watching in rapt silence.

He grinned. “Don’t get too excited, Wan. I haven’t even applied yet. But my professor is friends with someone on the board, and he gave me an application. So he thinks I could get in. And obviously, I have to try.”

Wanda was practically vibrating at this point. She wasn’t a studio major-she was in the fashion design program, focusing heavily on costuming-but she was keyed in enough to know this was a big deal, and not just for Steve. 

Sam grinned, perhaps less aware of the significance, but picking up on the energy. “That’s awesome, Rogers.”

He nodded. “I mean, as I said, I haven’t even gotten accepted to present an audition piece, but still.”

Clint clapped twice, looking almost as thrilled as Sam and Wanda. “You’re gonna sweep it, buddy.”

Steve giggled, appreciating the sentiment even if Clint seemed confused about what it really meant. You couldn’t really _win_ , but if it helped him conceptualize, he wasn’t going to fuss. “Thanks, guys.”

Wanda nodded furiously. “You’re getting in Steve. Your stuff is great, and the board will obviously see it.”

“What kind of competition is there for auditions?” Natasha asked. “I assume they comb through the applications and then have a bunch of rounds of interviews and whatever?”

He nodded. “It’s the whole city,” he admitted with a shaky smile. “And I don’t know how far I’ll get, but if I can even get considered, it would be pretty great.”

“Well I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Riley exclaimed, “but I’m sure you’ll do great. If Sam isn’t a rotten liar, you’re a _great_ artist.”

Steve couldn’t stop smiling, both at Riley’s well wishes and the new discovery that Sam went around _bragging_ about him. It made him feel like the Martinelli’s of people. 

“Good luck,” Bucky mumbled, a beat too late. 

Steve chose to roll with that and nodded politely. “Thanks, Bucky,” he sighed. 

“Please tell me I can help you go through your portfolio,” Wanda gushed, taking his attention away from the alpha beside him, who seemed to be doing an impression of a steel rod, he was sitting so rigidly in his chair. 

***

Bucky vaulted out of bed at exactly 6:35 pm, mindful of his plethora of note cards still scattered across his bedspread.

He had an hour to complete his scheduled, therapist mandated self-care routine before he had to get back to his Sustainable Energy homework. He had a playlist set aside, a rich smelling bathbomb tucked into his bathroom caddy, and some exfoliating scrub Rebecca had gotten him for his birthday which he’d been assured would work wonders on his “dumb, ugly, face.”

However, when he tried to get into the bathroom, the door was locked.

The sudden and insurmountable panic that sent through his body immobilized him for a solid twenty seconds. 

With jolting movements, he knocked lightly at the door. “Uh, Nat?” he called, because Clint was still on the archery range at this time on Wednesdays. 

“James Buchanan Barnes, it’s bath time. Do not bother me during bath time!” Tasha snapped.

And while, yes, one of the apartment rules was that no one was to be bothered during bath time, Bucky felt like he might vomit. This was not in today's schedule, and if he had to push his self-care to Thursday, he wouldn’t have time to call his mother and beg out of going to shul with the rest of the family this week. And he had a test in his advanced chem course on Monday, so it wasn’t like he even had _time_ for his family this weekend anyway. 

“Tasha, uh, I’m really sorry, but I need to do the self-care thing Banner told me to do. I need to do it right now.”

The sigh that Tasha gave was gusty enough to hear through the door. “Bucky, if that’s an allusion to masturbation I’m going to kill you.”

Bucky’s stomach only twisted further. “Of course not!” he snapped. “I mean I was going to use that bath bomb Clint got me. And Rebecca got me a sugar scrub. Also, I need to do it now, because this is when I _scheduled_ it.”

There was a beat of silence, and Bucky heard the sound of a body shifting in water. He really hoped that mean Tasha was getting out. Because he needed to get this done now. He’d make it up to her later. 

But Tasha did not, in fact, open the door. “James, that’s not how self-care works.”

“What?” he asked. He was pretty that was exactly how self-care worked. After Banner had mentioned it, Bucky had googled around to see what that might mean. The internet had been very specific. Self-care meant private time and fancy bath products. Self-care also sometimes meant indulgent foods, but Bucky hadn’t really wanted to schedule more time for that, and the idea of eating in the bathroom made him all sorts of queasy.

Sounding more and more impatient, Tasha explained, “Self-care, first of all, isn’t something you like...pencil into the calendar. It’s supposed to be something you do when you get stressed. It’s meant to calm you down.”

Intellectually, Bucky knew that was at least partially true, but the thing was he was _always_ stressed. It was better for him to just look at self-care as another assignment to tackle, or a mission to complete. 

He was about to explain that when Tasha continued on. 

“Additionally, you sound incredibly frantic about this. Self-care isn’t supposed to be a burden, James. You’re supposed to do something you _like_.” 

“I like bath time,” he argued, but it sounded weak even to his own ears. He knew that wasn’t really what she meant.

“I doubt Banner wanted you to be this upset,” she pressed. There was even more shifting in the water.

Bucky let out a grunt of acknowledgment at her words, but he couldn’t make his feet move. He was still uncomfortable with the change to the schedule, and what he _really_ liked was knowing what needed to be done at every moment in the day.

He was about to knock again and ask her if she was almost done because it was 6:40 now and he still had some time to do his self-care. Even if Tasha was right, he’d need to have a discussion with Banner about it this week, and then he could amend his strategy. For now, self-care was supposed to be happening between 6:35 and 7:35 tonight. 

But before he could, Tasha yanked the door open, looking supremely unimpressed to see him hovering and wearing her fuzzy red terry-cloth robe. He sidled past her, plucking his bath caddy from the wire rack by the sink. Bucky turned, watching Tasha expectantly as she leaned against the door frame.

“Oh,” she scoffed, “You want privacy for bath time? So did _I_ , James. Pull the curtain if you want, but I’m not leaving until my skincare routine is done and we’ve had a conversation.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but he still stepped over the rim of the tub and yanked the curtain closed before undressing. He tossed all his clothes in the direction of the sink and was rewarded when his jeans hit Tasha with a dull slapping thud. She let out an indignant yell but didn’t attempt to retaliate immediately.

He bundled himself into the tub, not bothering to fill it up until he’d gotten relatively comfortable. Comfort was really a fantasy in their apartment's tiny tub, though. The only one who fit even a little was Tasha, and even she couldn’t really soak. Maybe if the shower worked it wouldn’t be a big deal, but alas, that had busted about a week into their tenancy and because _Clint_ was supposed to handle contact with the landlord, it had yet to be reported. 

It was a wonder their rent made it to the right place every month.

About a second after he’d turned on the water and plunked his bath bomb into the warm water, Tasha struck.

“If you’re gonna dictate down to the very second of your life, would you mind scheduling some time with your friends?” Tasha asked, and there was a sudden and suspicious note of mischief in her voice.

“ _What_?” he exclaimed. “You and Clint are never home anymore.”

She sighed. “That’s because Clint and I are being social. You should try it! Besides, you just said last week you thought Sam was cool. And Wanda’s been to the apartment, so you’ve seen plenty of _her_.”

“They’re fine, Tasha,” Bucky muttered. “I’m just busy.”

He was studiously avoiding pointing out that it wasn’t Wanda and Sam he had an issue with. Or-he didn’t have an _issue_ with Steve, and that was the problem. Steve was great. Steve was so pretty it made Bucky’s chest hurt, and it had made him do something incredibly stupid. 

They shouldn’t have slept together. Besides the fact that they’d both been drunk, and that never led to great decisions being made, Bucky didn’t know if he was in a place for a relationship. When he’d brought it up with Banner in their session after the party, his therapist had been pretty clear that a relationship wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but Bucky needed to focus on handling his issues as a singular person. So he couldn’t do anything like date Steve, and he felt like a shitty enough person ignoring and avoiding him, but how shitty would he feel if he had to explain to Steve that he was perfectly fine having casual sex, but a real relationship didn’t fit into his _mental health plan_. It sounded like a lie, an excuse. Probably even was, on some level.

Bucky lathered up his washcloth and started scrubbing away at his skin absentmindedly as he considered his Steve situation. 

Really what it came down to was this; he needed to stay away from Steve, even if every glimpse he got of him made Bucky even more convinced that he could really fall for him. And anyways, even if he did try to start something with Steve, how long would it take the omega to realize that Bucky was actually fucking crazy and he deserved a _real_ boyfriend, an alpha who wasn’t afraid of his own shadow, who didn't need to control every aspect of his life to avoid triggering a panic attack?

“James, you’re busy because you make yourself busy. I know you have a lot of work to do this semester, but there is absolutely no reason to be up until midnight every night studying.”

Bucky let out an impatient sigh. “Last semester my GPA slipped. You know--”

“It slipped from a 4.0 to a 3.96, James. Give yourself a fucking break once in a while!” Tasha snapped. She’d been bustling around the sink for most of the conversation, but with those words, she strode across the tiny bathroom and yanked the curtain back to meet his eyes.

Bucky scrambled to cover his dick with the washcloth. “Natasha!”

“Listen to me, Barnes,” she growled. “If I have to talk to your sister again, I will. I don’t want to be the bad guy, but this needs to stop. You’re gonna start coming out with Clint and I, and I don’t care if that means you put it in your fucking schedule, but you’re doing it.” 

He didn’t really know how to respond to that. Bucky knew Natasha took his health seriously-she’d been with him every step of the way after his accident, and even through their misguided relationship and its inevitable dissolution, she’d been his first and best confidant. He’d always hoped he was the same for her, talking her through her growing feelings for Clint, helping her deal with the fallout of her messy childhood, all of it. But he didn’t know how he felt about her dictating things in his life, especially when it was more complicated than she really understood.

Reluctantly, Bucky braced himself for judgment. “Tasha, I understand that you care. And...and Banner did say I needed to engage with people more. But-uh. God, please don’t be mad?”

Tasha blinked, drawing away from the curtain to watch his face from a better vantage point. Bucky sat up, letting the artificially colored bathwater preserve his dignity so he didn’t have to keep holding his washcloth over his junk. 

“I won’t get mad,” Tasha promised. Maybe too hastily, as far as Bucky was concerned.

He winced. “At the Hydra party. I...Steve and I. We uh, we started talking? And then we were drinking together. So, you know, one thing led to another… Er, well. We maybe slept together? And that was fine. It was good, actually, considering I haven’t done that sort of thing in a while. But like-”

She shook her head in familiar exasperation. “Can I guess what you’re about to say.”

Bucky nodded hopelessly.

“You panicked and ran away, and now you’re trying to avoid him?” she asked succinctly.

Another nod. Bucky was practically hanging his head in shame.

“You know that doesn’t change anything right?”

Bucky perked up his head in order to glare at her stubborn face, “I’m pretty sure it _does_ , Tasha. Like, a lot.”

“It doesn’t. You need more friends, James. Like, a real adult support structure. So I’ve got some amendments to my earlier demands.”

Bucky threw his head back, preparing for some tough love. He sunk deeper into the water, wishing he could fully submerge and block out the sound of her voice. Stupid small tub made that impossible though unless he wanted to give her a rather sad eyeful. Neither of them wanted that, though.

Tasha looked down at him with a stern frown. “Not only are you going to make an effort to go out with Clint and me, and engage with our cool new friends, but you’re also going to have an adult conversation with Steve. If you want advice, I’m happy to supply it. And I’m not telling you to ask him out if you don’t want to. But, Bucky, he deserves a conversation. You can’t just ghost people.”

It as exactly what he didn’t want to do, but something about his own conscience speaking through Tasha’s lips made it even more obvious. She was right. Steve deserved at least a clear explanation of what the fuck had gone through his head when he’d slunk out of some frat guy’s bedroom without a word. He gave a solemn nod, and Tasha’s face softened a little.

“You and Clint are two of the stupidest men I’ve ever met,” she said, but her tone was fond. “Now, I have two really important questions for you, and then we can stop talking about this for the night.”

Bucky quirked his lips and he gestured for her to go on.

“Number one; why the fuck didn’t you tell me this _earlier_?” she scolded. Before he could defend himself, however, Tasha landed the final blow. “Number two; does he know you’re a total service top?”

***

“Ma, I’m home!” Steve called into the dark apartment. 

Normally, he’d feel bad about waking his mother up when she was napping, guilt carried over from a childhood where she’d only seemed to be able to pull awful third shift after awful third shift. But she’d been adamant when she’d gotten her new job that he was _not_ allowed to let her nap on her days off. Apparently, fixing her sleep schedule was now his new responsibility. He didn’t begrudge that either, because he delighted in forcing her awake with a cheerful yell every time he came home from class.

While he strode down the hall and threw on the kitchen lights, he tipped his good ear towards the back of the apartment to listen for the sounds of her stirring.

While he waited for her to make an appearance, he filled up a pot with water and set it on the shitty little electric stove to boil. Spaghetti didn’t sound especially appealing, but Sarah Rogers frowned on unreasonable amounts of take-out consumption, and she’d raised him to be self-sufficient. 

By the time Ma had finally pulled herself out of bed, he’d already gotten the noodles in and was searching through the pantry for some sauce.

“Hello sleepyhead!” he exclaimed in a sing-song voice, eager to turn years of sadistic wake-up calls back on his poor mother.

Sarah only shook her head at him, baleful glance bouncing of his chipper attitude. 

He shoved the coffee he’d brought from Starbucks across the counter at her.

“ _Steven_! Why do you waste money on fancy coffee?” she scolded, instead of saying thank you, like a polite person. “We own a perfectly good coffee pot.”

Steve grinned. “Your coffee pot doesn’t produce caramel macchiatos with a sprinkle of cinnamon,” he replied easily. “C’mon Ma, just drink it.”

She shook her head, but it must have mollified her because she reached out for the coffee with grasping hands just the same. “Spaghetti?” she asked, tipping her head towards the boiling pot. He nodded and returned to searching for the red sauce. 

“How’re your friends?” she continued after a long sip of her latte. “Tell Sam Wilson that he needs to get his butt over here for Sunday dinner soon or I’m telling Darlene he’s skippin’ out on us.”

Steve let out a triumphant trill when he finally found a jar of Prego shoved behind a bag of flour. He held it aloft for a second, turning for his mother’s approval. She only twisted her lips in a small frown at being ignored. Huffing, he turned and snagged a smaller sauce pot and set it lightly on the burner. 

“I’ll tell him, Ma. But Sam has a new boyfriend, apparently, and I’m not seeing a lot of him either.” He tried not to sound too bitter, because he was happy for Sam, and Riley was a _fucking delight_ , but it was weird to be calling Natasha more often than he called Sam or hanging out with Wanda without Sam there to settle them down when they got a little too rowdy. 

Sarah reached out and slapped Steve's shoulder. “You should be happy for him Steven,” she scolded, but there was a pleased smile on her face. “He might be the only way I even get close to grandchildren.”

Steve heaved a sigh. “Ma,” he warned.

Just because Sarah Rogers was a relatively progressive mother, it didn’t stop her from dropping hints at him sometimes. He could usually handle it, but his currently single status made the comment rankle.

She quirked her mouth in apology, and he turned back to the stove, unwilling to deal with any leading questions that might crop up from this conversation. 

He popped open the lid of the jar in a smooth movement, pouring it into the pot without ceremony. 

The issue, however, was that as soon as the smell of tomatoes and garlic hit his nose, Steve’s stomach twisted in sudden and intense nausea.

“Oh Jesus Christ," he moaned turning quickly away from the food.

“Steven!” his mother exclaimed, admonishment and concern echoing through her voice.

He hurried over to the sink and vomited directly into the drain, trying to contain the mess as well as he could. Pained moans punctuated each gag, until his stomach was empty and his throat was burning with bile.

“Fuck,” he rasped, wiping at his mouth with the paper towel his mother handed him. 

“Are you sick?” Ma demanded, even as she rubbed gently at his back. 

Steve didn’t want to straighten up and leave the sink, just in case the nausea returned, but made sure to make eye contact when he shook his head, letting her see that he was telling the truth.

He’d been bad about illness as a kid, admittedly, so it made sense that his Ma thought he might have been keeping it from her. He _had_ been tired lately, but that was just because he’d been pulling so many late nights, either with Wanda or alone in his room, getting his portfolio together and finalizing his appointments with the Rambeau interviewers. But there were none of the tell tale respiratory issues he’d been intimately familiar with as a kid. He hadn’t had so much as a stuffy nose all month. Even if the early October weather had been nippy, he’d been diligent about bundling up when he went outside.

“Maybe you’re GI’s being a bastard again,” Ma suggested, and Steve shrugged. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened. He couldn’t remember eating anything particularly risky today, but food labels were bullshit, so it was possible. “Why don’t you get some Pepto and go lay down. I can finish dinner, and if you’re feeling better, you can eat later.”

“Ma, it’s fine,” Steve complained, even as his stomach revolted at the idea of putting food anywhere _near_ his mouth. “I can just-”

“Go lay down right now,” she ordered imperiously.

Steve knew when he needed to back down. Or more accuractely, he knew it when Sarah Rogers was the one on the other end of things. 

***

With Natasha’s orders fresh in his mind, Bucky went into the second week of October full of earnest intentions. 

And then she revealed that she’d invited everyone to the apartment for a “casual get-together” that night, like a complete asshole. It didn’t really count if Bucky didn’t have any _choice_ in the matter. She might think she’s helping, but he was adamant with her when she revealed this social event, that was not the case.

“Oh don’t be a baby,” Tasha said, shrugging dismissively. “It’s pizza, beer, and a Chopped marathon Bucky. I’m not throwing you a _surprise party_.”

Momentarily waylaid by the horrific idea of a surprise party, Bucky didn’t reply for several minutes. In this time, Clint returned with two cases of beer and a precarious stack of pizza boxes. That had been another battle he’d lost, after arguing that they could at least spring for Indian if Bucky was going to have to deal with his own shitty behavior tonight. Clint had shaken his head, mock seriously, and explained that his shitty behavior was exactly the reason he hadn't been consulted on the take out order. 

“Just got a text from Wanda. She wanted to know if she could bring her brother,” Clint announced when he’d put his load down on the counter. “Told her it was fine, as long she brought a few extra snacks.”

Bucky whined, an incredibly un-alpha-like sound, at the thought of there being even _more_ people in his space tonight. 

“Settle down, Barnes,” Tasha warned. 

She’d just pulled a tin of muffins out of the oven and was absentmindedly trying to prod them into looking less flat. Joke was on her though, because if she’d wanted good muffins a warning about tonight that came more than ten minutes in advance would have been a great idea. He would have made her all the muffins in the world if she hadn’t planned a party in the first place.

Bucky’s tentative plan to explain himself to Steve had really relied on getting him one-on-one in a public place and being as honest as possible. A small party at his apartment with all their friends was like, the exact opposite scenario. What if Steve-or their other friends, for that matter-decided he was an asshole regardless of his reasoning, and didn’t want anything to do with him? What if Natasha still didn’t take no for an answer and Bucky had to go out of his way to make even _more_ new friends? This was the nightmare scenario. 

“Go get dressed and maybe you’ll calm down,” Clint advised kindly. 

With a small noise of distress, Bucky decided to just do what he was told. He left the kitchen and jogged through the living room. The door to his bedroom was still open, and suddenly Bucky was worrying about how _messy_ his room looked. 

He dashed through the door, throwing it closed behind him just in case anyone arrived while he was changing, and hurried to gather his school stuff up and shove it into his messenger bag. He closed his laptop and set it to charge on his desk. The dirty clothes were taken off the dirty clothes chair and shoved haphazardly into the corner not visible from the living room. The room could still use a real cleaning, and as long as nothing came up the next day, he’d theoretically be able to do it then. He didn’t _want_ to, but he could. 

Still wracked with nerves, Bucky started yanked a dresser drawer open and started pawing through his neatly folded collection of long-sleeved t-shirts. He took more care in dressing tonight, something he’d chalk up to nerves if anyone asked, selecting a comfortable but slim-fitting red henley and some dark jeans. Becca had purchased both articles of clothing. Most of his clothing consisted of either hid own misguided purchases or clothes that Becca or his mother had gifted him, probably out of pity. 

He heard the bustle of people entering the apartment just as he’d pulled his socks back on, and Bucky was struck by the question of whether it was weird to wear shoes in your own house.

***

“Where’s Barnes?” Sam asked.

He’d been the first through the door, and now he was standing in the kitchen, staring covetously at the muffins Natasha was plopping down on a large blue plastic platter. He was still polite enough to ask, though.

Steve just grabbed a muffin. 

He’d felt like shit all week, and if he’d had his way, he would be at home is his bed right now catching up on his to-be-read pile. Instead, after sitting through an infuriatingly vague phone conversation with Wanda, who had insisted that he needed to be there, he was sitting in his friend’s kitchen and stuffing a muffin in his waiting mouth.

The muffins were a little dry and incredibly dense, but the pop of fresh blueberries and the overly sweet taste felt like crack right now. Steve was already on his second one by the time Riley and Pietro had finally caught up from parking the cars. 

“Jeez, Steve-O, save some trash muffins for the rest of us,” Clint exclaimed. 

Natasha landed a rough-looking punch on her boyfriend’s shoulder before turning a sweet smile on Steve. “Don’t listen to him, Rogers. I’m glad you like them.”

Sam, who didn’t look particularly pleased with his own muffin, set it beside Steve’s third. With a distracted nod of thanks and acknowledgment, he tore the top of the muffin off and popped it into his mouth, barely a second after he’d swallowed the previous.

“Oh, guys, this is Pietro,” Wanda said, gesturing grandly towards her brother. 

Pietro gave Tasha and Clint a winning smile. “I heard there was pizza?” he asked. His accent, already thicker than Wanda’s, only got more pronounced when he was meeting strangers. Wanda said it was nerves but Pietro swore he did it on purpose because it made girls think he was interesting. 

Clint made a joke that Steve didn’t hear, because that was when Bucky shuffled into the kitchen.

He looked...well he looked really good. The shirt he had on was tight enough to show the definition in his arm and his chest, and he had his hair down but swept behind his ears, leaving his lightly stubbled face fully visible. He looked nervous, but that seemed to be Bucky’s default setting. 

Steve gave a rough swallow of the rest of his muffin and sat back against the rickety wooden chair he’d commandeered at the table. 

His decision to forget about Bucky as a possible romantic partner felt, all of a sudden, very inconvenient. He really was beautiful. If Steve was a different omega, he might even try to convince himself to look past the obvious communication and commitment issues to try for another-perhaps more athletic-tryst with the strapping alpha. 

“Hey guys,” Bucky mumbled, already tucking that big strong arm around his own middle in discomfort. 

“Hey, Barnes,” Sam offered diplomatically. He and Pietro had already made for the pizza and beer, like dogs after a bone. Clint was in the middle of serving them up some slices of plain. Riley was tucked against the fridge, simply taking in the scene. 

Bucky’s eyes seemed to sweep the room before landing, uncomfortably, on Steve. Uncomfortable because that meant he noticed Steve staring at him for way too long before he jerked his eyes back to his muffins.

“You’re risking the muffins?” Bucky asked in that deep, soft voice. 

Steve glanced back up at him. “You’re the second person to warn me off of them. Is there something I should know?”

Clint grimaced. “Other than the fact that they taste less like muffins and more like vanilla extract and the inside of our oven?”

Natasha threw her hands up in frustration. “How many times do I have to tell you, I’m trying my best!”

“No one _asked_ you to try,” Bucky shot back. An easy expression slipped over his face for just a moment, and it made his eyes shine silver. Steve took in a shuddering breath and took another huge bite of a muffin. He didn’t even know how many he’d had at this point. All he knew was that they smelled amazing, and smell of the pizza was sending danger signals through his body. If muffins were the only thing he could eat right now, he’d eat a shit ton to make up for missing out.

***

Once everyone had gathered their food and booze, the party shifted into the living room. 

While they couldn’t boast a lot of square footage, most of what little they had was spent on soft and comfortable seating. Despite Natasha being the only omega living in the apartment, there were several spots that offered up potential nest real estate. Their friends took that real estate and sunk their teeth into it. 

Sam and Riley were curled up together under a chenille throw in the armchair nearest the kitchen, ostensibly watching the television, but Steve had caught them nuzzling at each other during the commercial breaks. He wanted to make fun of Sam for it, but was too hesitant to ruin the mood for the pair. 

Wanda was sprawled on top of a fuchsia bean bag chair that looked questionably source, like Clint-because it had to be Clint’s-had found it on the side of the road. Pietro was laying with his head in her lap as she carded long, ring covered fingers through his silver hair. 

Natasha sat on the sofa between Clint and Steve, with her arms thrown around both of their shoulders.

And Bucky was sitting crammed at the very edge of the same couch, careful to keep any of his body from touching any of Steve’s body. 

He didn’t know whether to be insulted or feel grateful that Bucky was trying to be considerate. At most, he was annoyed, because Steve had a lot of opinions about the importance of physical touch and he hated gallantry, and also he really _really_ wanted to feel the muscles of Bucky’s thighs through both of their pants.

They made it through two episodes before Bucky relaxed his posture, and as they watched three rich famous people talk about umami, Steve allowed his body to shift further away from Natasha and closer to Bucky.

By the end of the third episode, their thighs were about half and inch away from each other. It felt like a victory. 

“Do you think I could be on Chopped?” Wanda asked the room at large.

“No,” Pietro and Steve answered together, immediately. 

Wanda look affronted. “Why the hell not? I’m a bomb-ass cook.”

Pietro laid a gentle hand on his sister’s ankle, resting just next to his shoulder. “You take critique like a pig takes medicine. Fucking _badly_.”

“I do not,” Wanda exclaimed. “I’m a design student. I have to take critique every day!”

“And you get upset every time, babe,” Steve pointed out.

This set off a series of smaller debates, as the group tried to determine who would be the best reality show contestant. Bucky was roundly decreed hopeless as competition, even though he pointed out that he was the best baker in the room. No one contradicted that, either because they agreed or they didn’t have enough information to rule on it. But they all decided the energy of Bake Off was relaxed enough for him to handle. 

Clint was arguing passionately about why Sam and Nat would absolutely sweep Survivor when Steve and Bucky both seemed to notice that Steve had shifted enough for his entire side to be plastered against Bucky’s. They both froze, thankfully unnoticed by the rest of their friends, before Bucky stood from the sofa with jerky movements.

“Gonna-gotta...beer. I’m getting a beer,” he said in a rush before ducking back through the kitchen door without another word. 

Everyone considered that for a moment before returning to their argument. 

Except Steve wasn’t really invested in it anymore. He wanted to follow Bucky. 

In fact, he was _going_ to. He should have said something weeks ago because it wasn’t like him to let stuff lie, but he’d given himself a bunch of excuses for why he didn’t really care, or he shouldn’t bother. And that was bullshit. Bucky was going to explain himself, and Steve was going to determine if his answers were good enough to justify the way he’d been ghosted. If they weren’t, he’d ask for an apology and try to get past this and see Bucky as just another one of his friends. If they were, he was going to talk through them and point out why actually they were dumb reasons, and then with Bucky’s permission, he was going to climb him like a tree. 

Steve slipped of the couch without a word, too preoccupied to think up a good excuse for following Bucky into the kitchen.

When he pushed open the door, Bucky was standing at the sink, arm braced against the edge and his head hanging between his shoulders. 

Steve cleared his throat. “Hey.”

Bucky jerked up, turning quickly to stare at him. “H-hi,” he replied, voice raspy. “I-um-I was gonna do the dishes.”

For some reason, that felt really fucking painful. Bucky was so desperate to avoid him that he was fucking lying. What was it about Steve that was so abhorrent?

He knew he wasn’t soft and sweet like most omegas, and he knew they hadn’t exactly met in the best of circumstances, but he’d been as kind and courteous as was possible for Steve since their friends had started hanging out together. 

Did the very idea of having to have a fucking adult conversation with Steve scare Bucky this much? 

Well he wasn’t going to stand for it anymore. They were fucking talking about this, and whether or not he and Bucky became friendly after this was beyond the point. 

Steve’s head cocked to the side. “You wanna avoid me so much you’re choosing to do the dishes rather than sit next to me?”

***

Bucky’s mouth opened uselessly as he tried to respond to Steve’s unfortunately accurate assessment of the situation. 

How the hell did he explain that it was all on him without saying the cliched “it’s not you, it’s me” line? Not only did he not want to come off as an asshole, but he also really wanted Steve to understand that none of this had to do with him. It was all _Bucky_. If Bucky was a normal person, he’d be so ready to spend more time with Steve. If Bucky was normal he’d be able to maintain a relationship, and wouldn’t have run away before anything could happen. He’d maybe want to pursue something more than perhaps impulsive sex with the gorgeous omega who was staring at him with those fucking blue eyes right now. 

“I don’t know what your thought process was, and I honestly don’t know you that well, but I think you should know that you really hurt my feelings,” Steve said.

There was a vulnerability to his words that made Bucky’s palm sweat. 

“I don’t…” he shook his head in frustration at his own inability to just fucking address his shit. If he’d just manned up from the get-go, there wouldn’t be cause for the hurt and confusion in Steve’s face. 

“I’m not expecting you to like, go back on whatever decision you _obviously_ already made, but I gotta say, I think it’s only basic courtesy to let me in on it.”

“That’s completely fair,” Bucky managed. “I uh… I’m sorry. Because I’m really not- I’m actually really bad at this talking thing? My therapist says I’m conflict-averse, so, I don’t know if that’s helpful?”

Steve blinked, before nodding diplomatically. Bucky pushed out a breath through his nose, trying to get his pulse under control before he started speaking again. Steve didn’t need to know about all his weird bullshit. All he needed to know was why Bucky had made the decisions he had and that he was really, truly, painfully sorry. 

After several moments, he tried again. “I don’t know if you noticed that I’m a pretty _anxious_ person? Yeah, I know. But, ah, I think you’re awesome. Tasha has had nothing but good things to say about you, and every time we all hang out you’re really nice and funny. And Sam says you’re super talented.”

Steve stood silent, placidly listening to Bucky gush about how great he was. Bucky paused, struggling to get back on track.

“Right, so you know how great you are. That’s not the point. Uh, the point is that I en- er, Jesus. I really enjoyed the night we had? At the party? But I’m not-”

“You didn’t want to do it again?” Steve prompted. His mouth was twisted up into a little frown, and Bucky rushed to explain himself.

“I would have loved to. But, like, I don’t know if I’m equipped for a casual relationship. And I _know_ I’m not equipped for a serious one. I mean, scheduling aside, I can barely manage to take my meds and call my mom. I’m kind of a mess so I’m not really... _boyfriend_ material. And you’re so great that I felt like a piece of shit for like...presuming.”

Steve’s brow furrowed. “You’re not a mess,” he said softly.

“I promise you, I am,” Bucky laughed. 

Steve shook his head, stepping away from the kitchen door and approaching Bucky at a snail’s pace. Bucky didn’t dare move. “I think you have a lot of shit going on in your head. And I’m sorry that’s going on. But people are  _ messy _ , they’re not  _ messes _ .”

Bucky offered him a bitter grin. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“Please do,” Steve said. The smile he offered in return was a little wider, a little less weighed down by sorrow than Bucky’s. “Really. I’m sorry you’re going through it right now. Um, that sounds like a valid reason to not want to pursue anything, but it would have been helpful to hear that like, weeks ago. Because I’ve been operating on the idea that you're a dick for way too long.”

“Considering what I did, I am kind of a dick,” Bucky pointed out.

Steve shrugged. “The first time you met me, I had my hands around someone’s throat. I don’t really believe in first impressions.”

Bucky laughed for real this time, a full belly laugh, just imagining the kinds of first impressions Steve could boast. Steve’s smile promised that some of them were even worse than public violence.

“I’m really sorry for not doing this sooner,” Bucky said again because if he apologized every day for a year, he’d still feel guilty.

“Forgiven but not forgotten,” Steve said. “That’s my best offer.”

Bucky nodded, reaching his hand out to shake. Steve took it, and they both looked serious and solemn for a split second before the moment broke and they were laughing again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be a pretty long one? That's hesitant though, so don't quote me on that!
> 
> Description for tws:  
> The discussion of abortion is within the context of a political protest and it is throughout the first section of this chapter. That is also where it is revealed that the character's with uteruses in this story do not have access to legal abortion. (If you wonder why that is, I have some world-building reasons for it, and I'm happy to discuss it)
> 
> The negative self talk is in regards to Bucky, and in it there is some internalized ableism (he calls himself crazy and is unkind to himself about his anxiety. He also criticizes his own masculinity because of his anxiety. It is throughout his POV sections, so unfortunately I can't really point out certain scenes to avoid. Just be forewarned, and know it's not like, super aggressive.
> 
> The vomiting takes place during the scene where Steve comes home to cook for his mother. He smells food that turns his stomach and is sick because of it. Not very graphic, but it's there. During this scene, he discusses feeling tired frequently which will be important later, and mentions being sick frequently as a child.


	3. these past few months have been pretty rough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is not as long as I thought it would be. Ahem, sorry for that one. I had a lot planned for this one before realizing it wasn't really working as one long chapter. (I'm trying to be conscious of theming when separating these chapters out folks!)  
> Thanks to my new beta! Their requested call out was as the nerd-word mowgai.  
> (I love that band fr though)
> 
> Anyway! 
> 
> Enjoy the show guys!
> 
> chapter warnings:  
> vomiting (last one, I promise)  
> discussions of abortion  
> more negative self talk  
> (description in the end notes)
> 
> *Edited 2/11/2021*

_October and November_

After confronting Bucky, Steve felt like he’d had a weight lifted off his chest. 

He discarded past-Steve’s previous plan to convince Bucky to let him climb him, if only because it felt insensitive in hindsight. Obviously, Bucky was struggling with something that was way more serious than Steve’s desire to get his rocks off.

So he dealt with his growing attraction the best way he how; not telling anyone, and spending way too much of his private masturbation time thinking about the alpha. He also made an effort to spend safe, fun, platonic time with Bucky in an effort to retrain his brain. It was not working. 

In between absolutely frantic daydreams about the shape of his new friend’s lips and panic over the fact that the only solid work he’d been producing was figure studies of that same new friend, he’d also been cursed by his own body. He woke up most mornings feeling like the dead, and his reactions to foods were volatile at best. His mother was getting frantic, to say the least, and if he made it through the day without vomiting or being unsubtly pushed into making an appointment, it was basically a miracle. 

But his mother knew how he felt about going to a doctor, and she’d admitted the night before that since he was an adult, she couldn’t force him to go. The look in her eyes said otherwise, and he knew the window for ignoring the issue was getting shorter, but there was a too large part of Steve that was worried that it might turn out to actually be something. And if it turned out to be a serious issue, he’d be fucked. The semester had only just started, and he despised having to take medical leave from classes. Plus there was the Rambeau show, which he’d gotten an actual interview for. He had not spent hours finalizing his portfolio only to have to back out because he had some rare disease or something. 

Wanda was so concerned she’d started sending him weird posts on Instagram about foods that were “gut-bacteria friendly” which were the most existentially horrifying things he’d ever seen. Not only did all the food look fucking awful, but the idea that his stomach issues might be connected to microscopic little sadists living inside him was only making him more nauseous. Still, he appreciated her commitment to converting him to vegetarianism. It was going on three years and it hadn’t worked yet, but damn if she wasn’t still trying. 

The worst it had gotten so far was the incident that transpired three days before Halloween. Riley dragged them to a little dive bar in Bed-Stuy which boasted not only a rotating cast of angry-looking lesbian behind the bar, but about a meter thick layer of filth on the floor as well. It was Steve’s kind of place, but considering that every time he tried to drink he felt like he’d been sent through a weird portal where the human experience was all contextualized through stomach pain, he wasn’t really feeling the vibe.

Steve suspected that either Natasha or Clint had given Bucky a stern talking to because he’d actually showed up to hang out for each of that week’s dedicated friend-chill-sessions (Steve only called them that in his head, because if he spoke those words out loud, he knew he’d be ridiculed ruthlessly for months) including the outing to Riley’s favorite bar.

“Why exactly _is_ this your favorite bar?” Bucky asked as soon as they’d all settled into the booth at the back. 

The recessed lighting that was supposed to keep the booth well-lit was blown out, probably years ago, so they were all seeing only by the grace of the bar’s dim “ambiance” lighting and the light coming through the bathroom doors, which were propped permanently open with a brick each.

Riley shrugged. “It’s only ever about a quarter full and everything is cheap. Plus it reminds me of home.”

“It’s nirvana,” Clint breathed, completely in awe. “This place is gonna give me sepsis.”

“Like you need help getting sepsis,” Bucky grumbled.

“Have you shown this place to Sam?” Steve asked. He had a really hard time believing Sam could tolerate this place. Sam wasn’t snobby by any means, but he had a natural respect for his health, and cleanliness was one of his only requirements for a bar to earn his patronage. 

The look Riley sent him was knowing. “Sam stepped one foot in here and threatened to call Health and Safety. Why do you think I waited until he had clinic to invite y’all out?”

Along with Sam, Wanda and Tasha were also absent, although when Steve asked where Tasha was Bucky and Clint had only shared a strange look and shrugged. 

“I’m gonna get the drinks,” Clint announced once they’d all gotten comfortable. “What do you want?”

Riley and Bucky requested beer, but when Steve asked for water they all sent him a strange look. 

“Are you sure you wanna drink the water here Steve-O?” Clint asked. “We don’t _really_ want sepsis, do we?”

“You can’t get sepsis from drinking water Clint,” Steve said, with the confidence of a man who knew anything about sepsis. 

Clint quirked a brow, but he held firm. With a shrug, Clint made his way to the bar.

They chatted for a bit before Steve leaned back and rubbed at his stomach. He wasn’t feeling sick exactly, but there was a weird churning feeling low in his gut. 

“Have you gone to the doctor yet?” Riley asked when he noticed Steve’s position. The frown on his face was an echo of the judgy look he’d gotten from Sam yesterday during lunch. 

Steve gave him the same answer he’d given Sam. “I will at some point go to the doctor. But it’s not debilitating, and it’s hard to get an appointment with my GI specialist.”

Bucky shot him a puzzled look. “You can’t just see a regular doctor?”

He tried to shove down the irritation those words caused. Steve had been sick since childhood, and he’d heard comments like that forever. But he had a GI doctor for a reason, and it was because “regular doctors” couldn’t fucking help him. It was why he also had a respiratory doctor and a regular appointment with the chiropractor. Still, Bucky didn’t know that, so Steve only shook his head. 

“I’ve been going to Dr. Murray since I was a kid. He knows what’s an issue and what’s normal.”

“ _Is_ it normal?” Bucky asked, now sounding concerned. Out of all his friends, Bucky was the only one who had yet to pester him about his recent fits of nausea and discomfort, perhaps because they’d only just reached a place where they could even _talk_. Even now, however, he looked apologetic for asking. Steve got the feeling he was intimately familiar with friends taking too much interest in his health.

Steve made a vague gesture. “It’s not the wildest thing that my body has done,” he offered, but didn’t go into detail.

Riley looked like he wanted to push, but Clint saved the day by arriving back at the booth. He had three beers clutched to his chest, a glass of water in one of his hands, and a bowl of fried _something_ , in the other.

“Oh, we’re eating food here now? What happened to sepsis?” Steve asked. But it didn’t stop him from reaching out for the bowl immediately to inspect what Clint had brought back. The smell of fried batter had him suddenly ravenous.

“You can’t get sepsis from food, Steve,” Clint said, throwing his voice deeper in an honestly insulting mockery of his voice. 

Steve pouted, yanking the bowl none too gently out of Clint’s grip and setting it right in front of him at the table. “Fuck you, Barton,” he said before taking one of the things and shoving it right into his mouth.

He moaned in bliss, closing his eyes at the rush of potatoey cheesy goodness. There was some kind of pepper or something too, but maybe also meat? He had no fucking clue, but it tasted orgasmic.

“What are they?” Bucky asked. He reached out in an attempt to grab one himself, and Steve slapped him away.

“Uh, you know, I kinda just saw some other guy get them and asked for some myself?” Clint said. He was smart enough not to try to take them from Steve, but he was gazing at them jealously. 

Bucky sent Clint a sharp look. “You brought bar food of unknown origin back to the guy with stomach issues?” he asked. Without warning, he reached across the table and yanked the fried mystery nuggets away from Steve.

The sound of protest Steve gave was low and threatening, but Bucky didn’t look willing to budge.

“If you try to eat another one of these, none of us are driving you home when you get sick,” Bucky said.

Steve sat up straighter, perhaps to argue, but the stern look Bucky gave him made his brain stutter. Bucky looked hot as hell when he was yelling at Steve. Bucky should be assertive more often because he felt suddenly and painfully aroused. This realization, of course, came with panic, because becoming aroused in this situation was bad for several reasons. 

Truly, he could list them. 

First and foremost, Bucky was his friend, a friend who had told him explicitly that he couldn’t handle a relationship of any kind only a little while ago. Add to that the fact that he was surrounded by even more friends, and they were sitting in a public place. It was perhaps the worst time to react this way.

Thankfully, Bucky didn’t seem to pick up on the reaction. Not immediately. 

Bucky pulled the bowl further away from Steve and slouched back in his seat, opening his mouth to say something more on the subject, when the smell of Steve’s arousal sort of _bloomed_ across the booth. Clint and Riley, saints that they were, looked suddenly and intensely uncomfortable but said nothing.

Bucky looked a little bit like a dying fish. Steve’s face flamed, and he slouched back in his seat and crossed his arms across his body, knees knocking with the force of him slamming his legs together. 

“I-” Bucky began, but seemed to think better of his choice to speak.

Steve cleared his throat, ready to apologize profusely, when the most intense nausea of his life hit him like a truck.

There was no time to react, no time to make for the bathroom, or shout a warning. Just a moment after the nausea came, he was leaning over the edge of the booth and puking all over the floor. Clint yelped pulling his legs up onto the vinyl seat and cowering against Bucky, while Riley and Bucky both gasped. 

Steve, blessedly, only had to puke once before he seemed to get his bearings. He stood immediately, taking no care to avoid his mess before he was off like a shot to the Omega’s room.

***

Steve was in the bathroom for twenty minutes.

In that twenty minutes, Bucky managed to rally the troops, feeling astoundingly calm considering the situation. He sent Clint to get a mop from the bartender as well as to assure the poor woman that they’d clean up after themselves, and Riley was sent to help Steve however he could because Bucky couldn’t go into the omega’s room. Not to mention it was an invasion of privacy he felt wasn’t within his rights. 

When Clint came back with a mop and an employee-she’d refused to let him take the mop without coming along-Bucky took it upon himself to lead the cleaning effort, because Clint looked a little queasy himself and he was _not_ cleaning up two of his friend’s biowaste tonight.

So when Steve finally reappeared, there was nothing he could do but apologize to everyone, frequently and tearfully. Bucky could tell the bartender thought he was trashed, but Steve didn’t seem to care, trying to push a ten-dollar bill into her hand even though she hadn’t even really helped with the cleaning. When she explained this, Steve, seemingly out of his mind with humiliation and exhausted from being sick, turned to Bucky with the same ten-dollar bill.

“I’m not taking your money, Steve,” Bucky told him firmly.

Steve shook his head, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Please, Buck. I just feel awful. You shouldn’t have had to do that. God, I’m such a fucking asshole.”

Bucky scoffed at Steve’s words, although not unkindly. “How are you an asshole, Steve? For getting sick? It’s not like you’re doing this on command. Unless you are, in which case, yes you’re a really _weird_ asshole.”

That got Steve to crack a smile, thankfully, and after that, he only needed a few more moments to collect himself enough for them to leave. 

“Now, Steven Grant, if you don’t go home and make an appointment tonight, I’m telling Sam to tell your mother exactly what happened tonight,” Riley warned once they’d gotten out onto the street. “I’m serious.”

Steve nodded, looking deceptively meek.

“And if you thought we were insufferable about this before,” Clint said, shaking his head, “just get _ready_ for the level of concern. I will not apologize for the lengths Natasha might go to.”

“When I was ten, Tasha found out an older boy was bullying me in gym class and she got him suspended. There might have also been an incident with super glue. He had to go to the hospital,” Bucky supplied helpfully. They rounded the corner, coming up fast on where they’d parked their cars. 

“That woman is an elemental force,” Riley nodded sagely. “I know that and we’ve only been friends for like a month.”

Steve’s hangdog expression made Bucky laugh out loud. “I will go home and make an appointment. Keep an eye on your mail, because Ma will probably be sending you all thank you cards.”

“Does your mother usually include a financial reward with her thank-yous?” Clint asked. 

They’d reached Steve’s car, but he made no move to get in. Steve gave a watery giggle and without warning, threw his arms around Clint’s neck in a tight hug.

Clint returned the hug immediately, patting Steve’s back gently.

“I’m sorry I ruined everyone’s night,” Steve said once he’d pulled back.

Riley rolled his eyes and gave Steve a hug of his own, shaking him slightly in exasperation. “Shut up, you little shit. Stop being so Catholic.”

“Mean,” Steve grumbled.

The moment Riley released him, Bucky felt the dreaded pang of anxiety in his chest. Because he had hug Steve now. Not only would it be weird if he was the only one who didn’t hug Steve, but he also _wanted_ to. 

Steve smelled nice. He smelled more than nice, Bucky thought, remembering the scent of his arousal just before Steve’s stomach revolted. He’d smelled like sex in a way no other omega ever had.

And now he was going to have a semi when he hugged Steve. Jesus Christ, Bucky was a fucking idiot.

Before he could think of some way to get out of a hug, however, Steve was reaching across the space between them. Shoving all the fear and guilt and horniness aside, Bucky returned the gesture. He was probably too stiff, and the way he had to shift his hips to hide the evidence of his shame too obvious, but it was only a quick hug, so it was fine.

They said their goodbyes into the night air, and Bucky’s eyes scanned Steve’s form once, involuntarily as he bent down to unlock his car door before Clint was pulling him away and further down the street to the car. 

***

“I’m sorry, what do you mean there’s _nothing_ wrong with me,” Steve snapped.

Dr. Murray looked apologetic, the furrow between his brows deepening as he folded his hands in his lap and turned more fully to look at Steve.

“Steven,” he began, and Steve’s gut clenched. Doc sounded pretty damn solemn for it to be nothing. 

And the anxiety that produced was pretty minuscule compared to the rage that was soaring through him right now. Doc was usually pretty good about not minimizing Steve’s symptoms, but it seemed absolutely asinine for him to say there was _nothing_ wrong with him, considering that Steve had spent fifteen minutes vomiting this morning. It wasn’t _nothing_. 

“The bloodwork didn’t come back with anything?” Steve asked. “Dr. Murray, I’ve been sick for like a _month_.”

“Steven I never said it was nothing. I said there isn’t anything _wrong_ with you,” Dr. Murray responded, voice even. He was used to Steve’s lack of composure in the doctor’s office-he had to be. After all, he’d been seeing Steve since he was in fourth grade and couldn’t get through a school day without abdominal pain because he’d been drinking milk like someone who wasn’t lactose intolerant. 

“What does that even mean?” Steve asked, less angry now and more baffled. 

“Well, the blood tests we run on people to determine how to go forward when they present with symptoms like yours test for a few different things. Typically, they’ll give us an idea of how your organs are doing, and we screen for diseases that commonly cause stomach issues. Your levels were all normal for you. I know you have kidney issues, so while that seemed to be a little wonky, I know your nephrologist probably has an eye on that. But with your symptoms, I also ran a test to check for pregnancy, and-”

Steve held a hand up, even as he felt the blood freeze in his veins. 

He was _not_ pregnant. 

“I’m on depo, and I take suppressants,” he said. “I _can’t_ get pregnant.”

Dr. Murray looked uncomfortable. “Steven, I’m not an omega specialist, but the results were clear. I of course encourage you to talk to your uterologist, but I think you should consider that you might well _be_ pregnant.”

Steve sat through the rest of the appointment in a state of shock, unwilling to actually consider that at all. 

He’d been on suppressants since he was 16. His mother had encouraged it as soon as New York had legalized them, and she’d gone on them herself joyfully. While getting pregnant outside of heat was in no way rare, it also wasn’t easy. It took more than one try for _damn_ sure. Out of heat and on birth control? It was fucking _impossible_. 

However, there was a voice in the back of his head that sounded sickeningly like his 9th-grade health teacher reminding him that birth control could always fail, and one had to take all precautions in order to be safe.

 _All precautions_ , like a fucking condom, for instance. 

He gave Dr. Murray’s receptionist the fax number for his normal omega clinic with a dazed voice, and then he was out in the world. It took him three tries to get his car unlocked before he bundled himself in and let himself cry for a little bit.

He drove home with shaking hands, and his voice sounded frantic even to himself when he called to book an appointment at the local omega specialist. 

He was back in a doctor’s office by 3 pm, his evening studio session forgotten as he sat clutching his hands in his lap, trying to avoid looking at the pictures of smiling omegas holding babies hanging up on the beige walls. An alpha and omega pair was cuddling close together on the other end of the waiting room, and Steve felt like stalking over to them and demanding they stop being so fucking happy and in love right now.

 _Read the fucking room_ , he thought viciously in their direction when the nurse finally called his name.

“Sweetie, the doctor’s gonna be a second but you can wait in an individual room until she’s ready,” the nurse said as he approached her.

Steve nodded wearily and followed her down the bright hallway off the waiting room.

She handed him a clipboard when they reached the examination room. “There’s a gown in there for you to change into, and you can fill that out while you wait.”

Steve nodded again, and then he was alone.

He changed quickly, tossing his unfolded clothes haphazardly onto one of the chairs and shrugging the thin hospital gown on. He didn’t bother tying it in the back, simply sitting down hard on the exam chair. 

With mounting dread, Steve went down the list of symptoms and concerns. Seeing them all laid out like that, he was struck with startling clarity.

 _Nausea and vomiting?_ Checking fucking yes.

 _Fatigue?_ Yes again, although he’d attributed it to school.

 _Mood swings?_ Yes? But Steve had always been a moody person, and he hadn’t thought it was something new. 

_Breast changes?_ Steve peeked down at his chest, a hand floating up to press against his chest. They _were_ sore. He resisted the urge to bring the gown up to study his nipples because this was fucking surreal enough. Male omegas didn’t have a lot of breast tissue, and Steve was particularly lacking in that department, but they did seem... _more_. Where he’d been explicitly flat before, now there was a slight give.

He was on suppressants and birth control, so he didn’t have a period or a heat to miss, but who fucking knew. 

As he checked boxes, Steve’s eyes welled with tears and he took larger and larger shuddering breaths trying to hold off the upcoming meltdown. 

He couldn’t be pregnant right now. So much of his future relied on what he did and how he did it in the next few months. Not to mention the fact that he didn’t even know if he even _wanted_ kids. 

Steve wasn’t an idiot, he knew there were methods of dealing with problems like this. Some people tried to help, there were things he might be able to take, but all of that brought with it dangers. With his already precarious relationship to his body, there was no telling what consequences a termination might have. Of course, the same could be said for pregnancy, but he wouldn’t be breaking the law by going to the doctor for prenatal health. 

He was in the midst of googling abortion laws in Europe on his phone when there was a light knock at the door.

“Come in,” he called out, and winced at how pathetic his voice sounded.

The smile the doctor offered was sad and sympathetic.

“Hi, Steve. I’m Doctor Priyanka. I got the bloodwork from your GI’s office.”

He nodded. “You wouldn’t happen to have really good news for me, would you?” he asked, and didn’t try hiding his utter desperation. 

She winced. “I will give you this, you’re easier to read than some of my patients. Sometimes I don’t know if it’s congratulations or condolences I should be giving out.”

It startled a tearful laugh out of Steve, even though he knew what that meant. 

“Your other doctor didn’t misread the test, Steve. But if you want to be completely accurate, I think we should get an ultrasound to confirm. The test indicated that you’re about seven or eight weeks in. Does that sound right?”

Perhaps the snort that elicited was a little overdramatic, but Steve was overdramatic as a rule. “Considering that I’ve had sex a total of one time in the last four months? Yeah, that sounds accurate.”

“Before we do the ultrasound, I’m going to ask you some questions, okay?”

Steve felt himself slipping back into that almost conscious state as he answered the doctor's questions, trying to keep himself from crying any more, or maybe just begging her to help him. Even beyond the whole pregnant thing, Steve had no fucking clue how he was going to _tell_ anyone about this. He’d have to tell his Ma, and the disappointment she’d feel in him was heartbreaking. Not only had he had sex without a condom, something he’d never done in his sexually-active life, but he’d gone on to ignore some pretty obvious signs. 

What if the baby was as unhealthy as he was? He might not have been able to stomach any alcohol, but what might he have eaten in the past two months to cause irreparable damage to the little monster inside him? 

He couldn’t be a _dam_. He wasn’t like his own mother, strong and hardworking and beautiful and generous. He was angry and small and too self-righteous for his own good. 

“Steve?” Dr. Priyanka said, like she’d said his name a few times and he hadn’t noticed.

“What?” he said, pulled out of his panic spiral.

“I want you to lay back now. We’re gonna do the ultrasound. Just let me know if you change your mind and you want to see the screen.”

Steve let out a bitter scoff at that, which the doctor was kind enough to ignore. 

He laid back and put his feet in the stirrups with little ceremony. He’d had pelvic exams before, and they never got any better, but Priyanka walked him through each step with a calm and detached tone, excellent for when someone was putting a weird wand up your ass in a doctor’s office. 

She kept the screen pointed away from him, which he was incredibly grateful for, and when she asked if he wanted to hear a heartbeat he gave a simple shake of his head. 

“So it looks like the test was accurate. You’re almost eight weeks along. Everything looks…” Priyanka gave a quick nod of her head. “Yeah, everything looks fine right now. Okay, we’re gonna get this thing out of you and I’m gonna let you get dressed. 

“You can talk to Kelly out front about scheduling another appointment, but I’d suggest that if you can, now would be a good time to find an OB. We’re good for prenatal care, but I know that sometimes omegas like to have a doctor they can build a rapport with, and the clinic can’t always guarantee you’ll get the same physician every time.”

Steve blanched, trying to imagine the little thing he’d be responsible for from now on. He was suddenly filled with the desire to hunt down Alexander Pierce and perform an assassination. If that man had kept to his campaign promises...

Then again, if Steve could start practicing good-decision making he wouldn’t have to worry about this at all. 

***

When Bucky had agreed to meet his sister for lunch, it had been with the implicit promise that she would not allow his mother to use it as an ambush.

Once again, however, Becca disappointed him when it came to fielding his mother's attempts at getting together. He knew something was wrong when he got to the table with his order of food and there were four chairs. He was further tipped off by the utter guilt that shone in Becca’s eyes when he sat down across from her. 

Without a word, Bucky laid his head down on the table and groaned, loud and long.

“I’m sorry, Buck. David told her I was on the phone with you last night and she called me this morning.”

“I’m never agreeing to meet with you again,” he warned. Picking his head up, he gave her a weak glare. 

They both knew it wasn't true. While Bucky and their older brother David had a fairly strained relationship-for hundreds of reasons that Bucky couldn’t begin to rank by severity-he and Becca had always been close. Unfortunately, Becca was also a terrible pushover when it came to Winifred Barnes. Honestly, everyone was a terrible pushover to his mom.

“Is she hiding in the bathroom, waiting until it’s too late for me to run away?” he asked bitterly.

Becca only nodded.

“Jesus Christ,” he huffed. “I’m not mad at you, Becs. David is still a huge asshole, though.”

Becca cringed.

“No!” he gasped, head whipping around to search the immediate area.

“He’s not here yet,” she said. “He just got in from Boston. Apparently, Amy’s uncle didn’t actually have cancer, so the visit was a waste of time.”

Bucky took that in for a minute, confused about whose fault that little bit of misinformation was. He opened to mouth to ask, but his words were cut off by the sudden weight of someone clinging to his back like a limpet.

“ _Jamie_ , Jamie, you look so tired!” Winifred cried, too close to his ear. Bucky tried to pull away, to save his hearing and his pride, but the grip his mother had on his shoulders was impressively strong. “And that hair? You said you were going to cut it!”

Winifred pulled away, but she kept a handle on his hair, which was falling loosely down to his shoulders. He’d wanted to put it up to save Becca having to see it in its unwashed glory, but she made fun of him for his man bun. His mother hated his hair either way. 

“I’ve been busy, mom,” he offered, but it was weak. That was confirmed when Winifred finally released him to sit delicately in her seat at the table and leveled a resentful look at his curls.

“Too busy to take care of yourself?” she asked. “Jamie, what did I tell you last month? If classes and running the apartment are too hard, your father and I would be thrilled to have you back.”

“It’s not too hard, mom,” Bucky assured her, rushing to assure her before it became a full-on guilt trip. “And no, I’m not having trouble with money.”

“If you’re offering money, I’ll take some,” Becca muttered. Winifred turned to glare at her daughter. “Sorry, mom. Just kidding.”

“How’s Natasha?” Winifred pressed on. 

He knew intellectually that this lunch was going to be a nonstop interrogation by his mother, with biting commentary from David whenever there was a lull, and that Becca would be largely spared, but he was still holding out the hope that David might just not show up, and maybe there would be an earthquake or an explosion and they'd have to evacuate the restaurant. 

Becca handled the family in a clever way, parceling out her interactions over the course of a few short phone calls every few days. Bucky’s approach was more like holding the flood back for weeks on end before being suddenly swept off his feet. Neither was very healthy, but at least Becca probably wasn’t going to end the lunch crying today.

“Tasha’s good, mom. She and Clint are thinking about getting a dog.”

Winifred’s lemon-biting expression at the mention of Clint was almost comical. “She and Clint are still dating? I really don’t understand you three _at all_. You and Tasha looked so _nice_ together. You would have made such pretty babies.”

Becca choked on her water, either out of horror or amusement, and Bucky wanted to sink through the floor. He’d need to tell his friends about this as soon as possible, because then they could laugh about it and it would be funny instead of traumatic. 

Natasha was a great friend, but he would be the first to admit that they were not “so nice” together. He couldn’t very well tell his mother that Natasha was too much of a top for them to work, however. He’d explained it that way to Becca and he’d wanted to _die_ afterward. 

“Her and Clint are great together mom. And there are no hard feelings. I like living with them.”

Winifred looked extremely doubtful. “Well, I know you’re focusing on school right now, but have _you_ found anyone?”

He held in a sigh and shook his head. 

He was _not_ mentioning Steve. Because Steve and he weren’t anything beyond friends, he reminded himself. It didn’t matter if he was the prettiest person ever, and Bucky had been wracked with concern for days, waiting for Steve to text the group chat and update them all on his health issues. It didn’t matter that within two weeks he’d both learned and memorized the countless little tics and gestures unique to the slim blond. Like that thing he did when his hair fell into his eyes and he used the outside of his hands to push it out of the way, and his long fingers trailed through golden strands.

He was definitely not telling his mom _any_ of that. 

“Don’t get mad,” his mother said. Becca let out a full-on laugh at that, her hand slapping over his mouth in an attempt to hold it in. “Rebecca! What is so damn _funny_?”

“Mom, I’m so- I’m sorry, Mom, God. I just-” but she couldn’t get anything more out.

Winifred looked ready to burst, indignant both at being laughed at as well as interrupted. Bucky was eternally grateful that Becca had stopped whatever insane thing was undoubtedly going to follow “don’t get mad,” but he was also mindful that this could lead to a meltdown of epic proportions. He was settling into the fact that he’d have to diffuse the situation when he spotted David striding in from the street. He scanned the restaurant in search of them.

Bucky gave a tentative wave but it was still a good beat before his brother spotted them.

“Mom, Dave’s here,” Bucky announced as he started making his way over.

Winifred’s head jerked away from Becca-finally getting her outburst under control-and her eyes lit up as David approached the table.

“Hey sweetie,” she greeted him. He leaned over to hug her before crossing the table to slouch down next to Bucky.

“Sorry I'm late, guys,” David said.

Becca offered him a weak smile. “How’s Amy?”

Winifred leaned forward, “I saw her mother’s post on Facebook about that girl her uncle married. It’s _ridiculous_! Where does she get off, lying about health issues like that!”

“Is this the cancer thing?” Bucky asked.

It must have been the absolute worst thing to say, judging by the trio of looks he got. Becca looked horrified for him, Winifred looked like she wanted to smack his knuckles and scold him, and David’s absolute distaste was-well, that was about on par for David, but still.

“Jamie,” Winifred began, but David waved her off.

“Don’t worry about it, Mom. Buck’s not on Facebook anymore, remember?”

Winifred rolled her eyes. “And that’s another thing! How in the world am I supposed to keep up with you? It’s okay if you can’t call every day, and as long as you like the _shul_ you’ve been going to, I can’t stop you from not coming along with us! But you’re not even online so we can chat.”

Bucky suspected that she’d been holding all that in for a while now. Part of him felt bad about the expansive nature of the lies he told his mother, but not a large part. 

“I _am_ busy, Mom. Today was the only time I could get free for lunch in almost a month. Plus, Nat and Clint have been trying to get me involved on campus. Because Banner said I needed a more expansive social life.”

He knew that using his therapist as a cover was probably morally gray if not outright bad, but it was also the only thing he could think of to save himself a world-ending lecture. And if what Banner had explained about self-care was correct, _this_ was his self-care.

“What does getting more involved look like?” David asked, sounding highly suspect.

Bucky’s mind blanked. He couldn’t tell them it meant attending a frat party, or going to dive bars with his friends, or getting high with those same friends at his apartment. “Well, you know, Tasha and I have been getting into the art scene? Er, like, there’s this thing we do? Like a painting class? But it’s not a real class.”

He was, of course, referring to the last time they’d gotten high, and Steve had attempted to lead them in a Bob Ross style painting activity. Bucky still had a mess of blue and brown acrylic paint on cheap canvas in his bedroom. 

Becca shot him a disbelieving look because she’d been the lucky recipient of a video of him jokingly explaining the “themes of his works” while high at 3 am. There was no doubt she knew that was his new “painting class, but not a real class.” God, he was a fucking idiot.

“You’re doing arts and crafts?” David asked. 

Winifred sent David a quelling look. “Sweetie, leave him alone. Bucky works hard. I think it’s a good idea to have fun little hobbies.”

Confidence swelling, and because it seemed like a good idea to foster his mother’s goodwill, Bucky went on. “Yeah. My friend Steve keyed me into it. He’s a studio art major, and he says free painting is really relaxing.”

“Oh, Steve?” Becca cut in. “He’s so sweet. Tasha sent me his Instagram because I was wondering where she got that painting in her last post.”

Bucky blinked. “You follow Steve on Instagram?”

She nodded. “I do. Not all of us live in self-imposed communications exile, Buck.”

As if that was the issue here. The real issue was that Bucky knew exactly what Steve’s Instagram looked like. It was adorable, and Bucky had become a new and frequent guest star, because Steve liked taking pictures of him when he wasn’t looking, like an asshole. It was normal friend behavior, but he was terrified Becca would figure everything out.

“Who’s Steve,” Winifred asked, sounding resentful about being left out.

As soon as Becca pulled her phone out, Bucky wanted to take back the last five minutes. His mother was not allowed to see Steve. Because Steve was pretty, and Steve had an omega symbol in his bio, and because his mother was more invested in his dating life than even Tasha. But it felt even weirder for him to tell Becca to stop, so Bucky sat as still as possible as Becca pulled his profile up.

Winifred looked delighted for a split second, probably taking in the most recent picture of Bucky curled up on Sam’s couch with Steve plastered against his side, Steve’s glasses almost slipping off his nose. Bucky’s eyes were focused off camera, making him look intense and moody. The next picture in the stack was of the screen, where Legally Blonde was playing. She was probably reading way too much into that post.

Luckily-or maybe unluckily, because you could never be sure with his mother-the next post was a picture of Steve and Wanda with the banner they’d made for the protest against Governor Pierce in September.

“I thought you weren’t dating anyone?” Winifred asked. And now she sounded _hopeful_. So maybe it was actually good that his mother disapproved of Steve’s politics. Apparently, no love life was better than dating a “radical.”

“Steve and I aren’t dating,” Bucky assured her. “I’m not dating any of the omegas I’m friends with mom.”

He winced as soon as the words left his mouth. It sounded like a purposeful exclusion. 

When David opened his mouth, perhaps to imply he was dating one of his alpha friends-a fact his mother would probably commit murder over-Bucky clarified.

“I’m single, Mom. And I don’t think that will change until after I’ve graduated.”

Winifred looked conflicted. “Jamie, I just worry about you. I don’t want you to be alone forever. It’s important to have a partner for the big stuff in your life.”

Considering the “partnership” between his parents, Bucky couldn’t really fathom what she meant by that.

“But if you’re single, you should come to my dinner party next weekend. My friend Terry’s daughter just started med school.”

The look on Becca’s face almost made up for the mental energy he was going to have to extend when he crafted an excuse to get out of _that_. 

***

Steve told Sam first. 

It was the obvious choice. Sam was a deeply kind and emotionally aware person, and he’d had a lifetime of practice dealing with Steve and his subtle irrationality. Steve knew he could expect real concrete support from his best friend. He’d also get a healthy dose of careful judgment for his poor life choices, but he was a realistic person, and it felt like good practice for when he had to tell everyone else in his life. 

Except for Bucky, because there was no way to prepare for that. Steve was choosing not to think about that conversation right now.

He texted Sam the night after his excursion to the Omega clinic, keeping it light on details and heavy on desperation, and they agreed to have dinner, just the two of them.

When Steve arrived at Sam’s apartment, dressed like the bottom of a Goodwill donation box and puffy from crying, there was a pause as Sam took it all in.

“Are you really sick?” Sam asked, voice soft. “Did you get awful news from the doctor? Because I want to be a very supportive and helpful force in your life but I might need a little time to myself to break down.”

Steve’s gut reaction was to laugh, but the worry that washed over Sam’s face urged him into words. “I’m not dying, I promise.”

“Maybe lead with that next time,” Sam sighed, and moved to the side so Steve could slip him into the apartment.

It smelled nice because Sam’s apartment always smelled nice. He was very passionate about his candles, and he had very strong opinions about which scents worked and which didn’t. Steve, in his naive youth, had attempted to gift Sam with a lovely vanilla bean scented candle, and Sam had shamed him for his “terrible white people choices” which felt both uncalled for and utterly deserved. 

“What’s that?” Steve asked, taking an overly large sniff. It reminded him, very annoyingly, of Bucky. 

“Um...amber leather,” Sam told him, peering over at his little shrine to good scents. There was a huge three wicked candle going. “I wanted something simple, you know, for a calming atmosphere. Because you have news. Which you are going to tell me now, so we don’t sit through a very uncomfortable meal.”

The sigh Steve gave in response was a little much, but that was how he felt, and he knew he didn’t have to bullshit with Sam.

“Dude,” Sam laughed. “If you’re not dying, it really can’t be that bad. Did you join a cult or something? Are you having a bastard child?”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve laughed. Because being pregnant _was_ on the same level as dying or joining a cult. He sunk slowly onto Sam’s lumpy couch, drawing his knees up and hiding his face. “You can’t tell anyone right now. My mom doesn’t even know.”

Sam was silent for a hell of a long time, and Steve didn’t know if he was deciding what to say or trying to figure out if Steve really _had_ joined a cult.

“How?” he finally asked. 

“The usual way,” Steve said. “Do I need to call your mom and ask her to have a discussion with you?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Sam said, and if he was anyone else, it would have sounded impatient, but Sam’s words were gentle. “I guess a better question would have been _who_.”

“I was really hoping you wouldn’t have to ask that one,” Steve grumbled. 

Sam let out a little grunt, probably realizing his mistake. Steve told Sam _everything_ -he’d told him about Bucky at the same time he’d told Wanda, and there’d been no one else.

“So you said no one knew?” Sam prodded. “That includes Barnes.”

Steve nodded miserably. “As I said; I haven’t even told my mom. I have no idea what Bucky will do. I mean, he’ll probably freak out like I am. But I don’t know if..." He raised his head, meeting Sam’s eyes. “He’s not, like, doing great. Mental health-wise, I mean. And if I’m having an issue with it, I doubt he’ll be very _helpful_.”

Sam was quiet for even longer this time. When he finally spoke, his words only confirmed what Steve already knew. “I’m your friend and I’ll support all of your decisions, Steve. _But_ , you’re an adult, and so is Bucky. You need to tell him. That way, you can both make an informed decision. Even if you decide that he doesn’t get a decision, which is _fine_ , he needs to know.”

“Yeah,” Steve rasped, eyes welling with tears. “I knew you were gonna say that.”

“I’m the most mature and well-adjusted person in the world,” Sam replied easily. “Way better at you at this being grown thing.”

Steve smiled, giving a helpless shrug. “I’m absolutely fucked, so I think anyone would look better than me at the moment.”

Wanda was next, mostly because he didn’t want to put Sam in a position where he had to keep secrets from his other best friend. She took it...less well.

“Do you want me to put a curse on him?” she asked as soon as he’d tearfully explained his situation the next night in her bedroom. 

Steve shot her a baleful look. “Maybe you think that’s helpful, but I really don’t need the temptation.”

“Listen, I don’t even know if it works, but my lab partner for bio said she cursed her boss and his wife left him like a week later.”

“Bucky didn’t do anything wrong, Wanda. Or, it’s not his fault I’m...you know. That’s kind of a team sport.”

Wanda shrugged, slumping back on her bed and gazing up at the ceiling. “What do you think you’re going to do? I know a girl whose sister was able to deal with a pregnancy a few years ago. I could ask? Or we could fly to France?”

“I think.”

Steve didn’t really know how to finish that sentence. What did he think? Abortion might be the harder option, at least logistically, but it would make the situation simply go away. He could let Wanda contact some girl who might not have any information for him, or he could fly all the way to France apparently and pay exorbitant amounts of money, but it didn’t change what Sam had told him last night; Bucky deserved to _know_. He couldn’t make any decisions until he’d told Bucky. 

_Fuck_.

***

When Steve finally texted him, Bucky felt relief so great he was a little shaken. He responded immediately, asking after his health, and the relief only mounted when Steve assured him there was nothing life-threatening going on. 

**_can we meet up? coffee at the rainbow in like 30 min?_ **

Bucky was quick to agree, and he abandoned his 16th-century poetry reading so he could hurry into clothes fit for seeing other people. 

Tasha, probably overhearing the frantic way he was banging around looking for his nice jeans, peeked her head into his room.

“Got a hot date?” she asked.

Bucky blushed, which was the wrong move, because suddenly she was coming all the way into his room, looking intrigued. 

“God, James, do you _actually_ have a hot date?”

“No,” he said, too quickly. “Steve asked if I wanted to get coffee.”

Tasha quirked a brow. “So you're going to get coffee with Steve and that’s _not_ a hot date?”

“Natasha, Steve and I are friends now. We are only friends. I talked about my feelings like an adult already this year. Give me a break before you try to force me into something I’m not ready for.”

He realized it was a little harsh as the hurt expression flashed across Tasha’s face. He wanted to apologize immediately, but her face cleared quickly. 

“Alright, James. Go and have a not date with the guy you’ve been mooning over for months. But don’t come crying to me when avoiding the problem doesn’t work.”

Bucky winced when she left the room, closing the door behind her a little too forcefully. 

But it really only reinforced his decision. If he couldn’t handle a simple conversation with his oldest friend, how in the hell would he handle a romantic relationship with someone as volatile as Steve was capable of being? What if he said something wrong? He’d never be able to maintain any level of mental wellness trying to be the person Steve deserved. 

Feeling equal parts vindicated and guilty, Bucky dressed and left the apartment. The trip to campus was quick, and he made it to the cafe in about twenty minutes. He thought that would make him earlier than Steve, but when he strode through the door, Steve was already sitting in a booth near the back of the shop.

He looked washed out and pale, hunched in on himself with his legs drawn up into the seat.

Bucky hurried over, concern probably written across his face. “Steve? I thought you said everything was good!”

Steve’s head jerked up, and tears were glistening in his eyes. Bucky slid into the booth next to him, propelled only by instinct at this point, and drew Steve into a crushing hug. The slight blond seemed to sink into the embrace. 

“Stevie, what’s wrong?” he murmured into silky smooth hair, hand running gently over his back. 

Steve drew away a bit, blinking up at him. “I have to tell you something.” 

His voice was croaky like he’d been crying a lot, and Bucky resisted the urge to pull him back in and hug him again. He withdrew his arm and scooted back. Whatever it was, Bucky was more concerned with how it had affected his friend. The least he could be was attentive and calm.

“Go ahead,” he prodded when Steve only sat and stared at him for a long moment. 

“I went to the doctor earlier this week like you guys told me to. My GI specialist. And he took my blood for a round of tests. And, fuck, I mean this fucking sucks. Because I really don’t know how to make this decision on my own. So I talked to Sam, and I talked to Wanda, and Wanda wanted to just put a curse on you. But that’s not fair,” Steve said. He shook his head, tears welling up enough to slip down his cheeks, leaving tracks all over his face.

Bucky was puzzled. “Did I? I’m sorry, Stevie, but I think I’m lost. Are you sick? Did I make you sick? How did I make you sick?”

The breathless laugh that left Steve sounded a little too much like a sob for Bucky’s liking. He sat, helpless, waiting for more information, or the punchline, _anything_. 

“I guess you could kind of say you made me sick? I’m pregnant, Bucky.”

Bucky’s brain caught fire, and if he was less shocked, he might wonder just how dumb he looked with his mouth gaping open and his eyes blinking the way they were. 

“What?” he whispered. “I mean… But…”

“We didn’t use a condom,” Steve said, and Bucky nodded. They hadn’t, because Bucky was obviously the dumbest, most selfish asshole who ever had the audacity to be born.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said reflexively. It felt like this was his fault. It probably was his fault. It was his responsibility to remember to use a condom and he’d been so fucking eager it hadn’t even crossed his mind. Even now, he could barely recall not using one. 

Steve looked upset at that response. “If I remember correctly, we both made a stupid decision that night, Bucky,” he snapped. 

“Yeah,” Bucky breathed. “But- Fuck. What are you going to do? What are we going to do? Do you want- What should I do?”

“It depends on if you have several thousand dollars,” Steve said. “Because me and Wanda looked at prices for flights to France last night and they’re pricey. I also don’t have a passport, so who knows if I’d be able to get there in time to... _deal with it_.”

“You don’t have a passport?”

Steve squinted at him. “That’s really not the point, Bucky.”

Sheepish, Bucky nodded. “I don’t...I really don’t have thousands of dollars on hand. I could ask my parents? But I don’t think my mother would agree to, uh, to help with something like this. She’s not-my mother’s a lot, and she’s got very rigid views on that kind of thing.”

“I didn’t really think that plan would work,” Steve admitted. “I don’t know if...I mean, adoption is an option? But-”

“If that’s what you want, I understand,” Bucky assured him.

“I don’t think I want that,” Steve admitted. His voice was soft, quiet in a way Steve usually wasn’t.

Bucky was confused about the feelings that dredged up in him. 

He was so unprepared for parenthood it was almost laughable. There were days when Bucky couldn’t even manage to get out of bed, days when he was filled with so much energy he did stupid things and hurt himself in the pursuit of a standard of perfection that was probably impossible to achieve. If he had a child, if Steve decided to raise this child and wanted his help, Bucky _knew_ he would only fuck it up. 

But there was a traitorous part of him that was beyond relieved that Steve didn’t want to book a flight to France or put the baby up for adoption. That part seemed unaware that if Bucky was the baby’s dad, adoption was a much better option.

He knew he was taking too long to reply, simply because the look on Steve’s face had passed vulnerable and moved on to heartbroken.

In the end, this was Steve’s choice, however. If Steve wanted to keep it, Bucky was going to do everything he could. And he could only hope that the baby would be fine, because even if he was a freak, Steve would probably be an excellent dam. The passion he brought to every aspect of his life would only be an asset in childrearing.

“We’ll do whatever you want, Steve,” Bucky murmured. “I want to help however I can. Anything you need.”

Steve nodded. He seemed to be resolving himself to this decision, and his blue eyes sparkled with that passion. Bucky’s stomach twisted with every tender thing he felt for Steve. 

Because this was going to suck, and Steve would probably run screaming as soon as he figured out how hopeless Bucky was, but he’d have to hold on to his own version of stable. He needed to be whatever Steve needed right now.

He’d just ask Banner to move his appointments up to two times a week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so that incredibly obvious "twist" is out of the way! Please tell me what you thought!!  
> Warnings:  
> The first scene in this chapter depicts Steve being sick once again. He is out with Clint, Riley and Bucky and eats something of dubious origin. This is after a prolonged stomach issue and I don't think it's that graphic, but I wanted to warn once again. I promise there won't be any more of this. 
> 
> The scene during which Steve visits with his doctor discusses both abortion and the reality of living in a place without access to abortion. 
> 
> Once again, Bucky's POV is riddled with negative self talk is reference to his mental illness. It's pretty prevalent and important to his characterization. I'd probably recommend if it's an issue for you that you probably wouldn't have fun with the rest of this fic. (Sorry guys, it gets worse before it get's better!)


	4. calm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You probably noticed that I changed the chapter count to be open-ended? That's because my outline has quickly been upstaged by what I'm actually writing. But have no fear, I still know all the important beats and where we're going to end! A hearty thank you to my beta once again saving me from bizarre typos. 
> 
> Anyway! Hope you guys enjoy this one, and please, let's just talk about how delightful Sarah Rogers is.
> 
> *edited 2/11/2021*

_November_

Now that the dreadful task of telling Bucky about their little blessing/terrible awful mistake was finished, Steve moved onto what he’d only now realized was a far more insurmountable conversation.

Growing up in a single-parent household didn’t always demand a close relationship with the person raising you, but Steve and Sarah Rogers had a strong bond. His mother was his hero, and he admitted it freely, no matter how sappy it sounded. She’d always driven him to be the best he could be, and she’d spent too many nights sitting up with him through chronic pain and dangerous fevers. The woman was the closest thing he’d ever known to a saint-his strained relationship to the Catholic church notwithstanding. 

So the idea of sitting down with her and explaining that he’d made an unalterable choice, something that ran the risk of damaging his life and the lives of those around him was hard to stomach. Even though he knew she wouldn’t, he couldn’t help fearing that she’d question his decision to keep the little monster growing inside him.

To be honest, even he was questioning it. The words he’d said to Bucky had felt like they were coming from someone else, and while he knew and was being reminded constantly by Sam that he could change his mind whenever he wanted, something always stopped him from going that far.

He’d gotten through another morning of sickness and exhaustion and he’d been so close to texting Bucky that they should start looking into adoption, too scared to contemplate being a dam and having to raise a child when the resentment he felt was so great. But he’d stopped halfway through the text and couldn’t finish it. Steve didn't know if it was some fucked up patriarchal ideal in his unconscious, but he was afraid of taking steps he wouldn’t be able to reverse without majorly fucking this kids life up. 

Telling his mom felt like too much too fast, and the anxiety and fear took him all the way into November. He’d bowed out of Halloween festivities, sitting in his room huddled under his blanket and scrolling jealously through his friend's social media, despairing at his own inadequacy. The only shining light was that Bucky had also chosen to opt-out of partying. Sam suggested it was a form of solidarity because Sam was a good person, but Steve couldn’t help thinking that Bucky was just freaking out too much to entertain the idea of being around other people.

On November 3rd, Steve noted that he was now 9 weeks along. It felt like too long to hide something from his mother, and he spent his mixed media class with Erskine wracked with guilt. During his lunch break, he called Sam, hands shaking, and asked for advice.

Sam was annoyingly supportive. “Steve, I really don’t think Sarah would blame you for taking time to yourself to figure this out before telling her.”

He wouldn’t even feed into the blame Steve was trying to put on himself. Steve grunted with frustration. “I’m basically lying to her every time I come home and don’t say anything, Sam.”

He could practically hear the eye roll _that_ brought on. 

“Give your mom some credit, dude. She’s like the best mom ever-besides my own of course. She’s not gonna get all petty with you about this. But, I mean, I’m sure she’d want to know. You know, in order to _support_ you.”

“The fact that I need my mom’s support probably says a lot about what kind of parent I’m going to be,” Steve muttered. 

“I don’t know about that. But if you called for me to tell you to have a conversation with your mother, you already know what I’m going to say.”

Steve huffed again, but he did. Joylessly, he recited what he imagined Sam was mouthing at the receiver. “I should have an adult conversation and be honest with her. I need to tell her about this if it’s costing me this much to hide it.”

He heard an overdramatic cheer over the line. Steve rolled his eyes.

“I’m so proud of you, Rogers!”

It took everything within him not to hang up immediately, but Steve knew Sam wasn’t his therapist, and it was rude to call him for advice and advice only. He stayed on the line for another ten minutes, being a dutiful friend. By the end of the call, he did feel a lot better, basking in the simple relationship issues Sam was bitching about.

The good mood lasted until he got home from school.

Sarah was awake and home, which Steve was devastated about, hoping he’d have a little time to psych himself up for this conversation. Unfortunately, as soon as he came through the door, she popped her head out of the kitchen. 

“Hey, you little bastard,” she greeted.

Steve’s steps stuttered. “Excuse me?” he asked, voice noticeably high. 

She wagged a finger at him. “Don’t pretend you don’t know!”

Steve placed his bag as gently as he could beside the door. “Can’t say I do,” he admitted nervously. 

“I was talking to Darlene on the phone last night, and she said Sam was complainin’ about you and that art thing. The Rambeau show. You don’t get to mention it offhand and not tell me you landed yourself in the final round of consideration!”

“Oh,” Steve breathed. 

Because that was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment. He knew it was a big deal, and a tiny part of his brain was incredibly excited. But another was spending _hours_ imagining just how pregnant he was going to be in May and how it might affect his chances. He hoped it wouldn’t matter, but he had to be realistic. They didn’t live in a fantasy world, and who knew what state this fetus might leave him in, or even how capable he’d be at painting when he was a nervous flighty wreck.

“Yes, _oh_!” she replied, but there was no heat in her tone. “I’m fuckin’ thrilled, you brat. But I’d have liked to hear it from you.”

Steve’s pulse jumped, and he wondered if it might give out. To be honest, if he bit it right this instant, a lot of his problems would go away. 

Okay, _that_ was not a great line of thinking. 

“Uh, Ma...I have something important I need to talk to you about,” he blurted out impulsively.

Sarah’s smile shrunk, still present but with a tinge more hesitancy. “More news?” she asked, relatively mild considering the situation. But then, she had no idea, did she?

“Yeah,” he agreed, voice high and reedy. Sarah backed up a bit, gesturing for him to follow her into her bedroom.

He did, feeling altogether too young for his life, shrinking into himself a little when she sat on her bed and patted the spot next to her. Once he’d settled, albeit shakily, she turned and gave him a soft look.

“I take it you didn’t get it?” she asked.

Steve blinked. “Get in the show? No, that’s not- We won’t know about that until November 23rd. No, it’s something else Ma.”

Sarah sighed, reaching out to brush at his bangs. “Are you okay? Is this about the doctor?” she asked him gently.

Steve nodded. He tried to fight back tears, but there was nothing he could really do about them. His mother was being so goddamned _nice_ to him right now. It made him feel like a little boy, someone who could run to Ma and have all his problems melt away with a gentle gesture and inspiring words. Except he was 21 years old and there wasn’t much she could do for him right now.

“Oh, dearie. Are you sick? Is it…” she trailed off, perhaps nervous to say the worst thing it could be. 

His father had been diagnosed with cancer when he was still little, and he didn’t have a lot of memories about the decline of his health, but he knew the whole experience had been hard for his mother. They’d moved to America as a young couple, fleeing families who didn’t have the capacity for kindness, didn’t like the two of them being together. She’d been basically alone when Joseph Rogers died, leaving her to raise a sickly little boy on a single income in a neighborhood that was on the verge of being gentrified. 

Steve didn’t want her to fear for a _second_ that he had cancer. 

Turning, so he could lay his head on her shoulder and hide his face, he let out a small cry. “I’m not sick, Ma. I, uh. I’m sorry. I did something _stupid_. I’m pregnant.”

Sarah moved quickly, hands reaching out to tug his head up and make eye contact. “Steven Rogers, you are _not_ a stupid boy.”

He snorted, tears coming fast at this point. 

“You’re not stupid, dearie. Listen to me, don’t look away. You’re okay, alright?”

“But I don’t know what I’m going to _do_ ,” he murmured. 

She shook her head. “Steven, you’ll do whatever you damn well please, do you hear me? I don’t care if we have to take out a loan and take a trip. I don’t care if you decide to be a dam, understand? What have I always told you about this?”

“That it’s my choice,” he said.

“Exactly, dear boy. Whatever you choose, I’m happy to be here for all of it.”

Steve gave her a watery smile. “I...I’m thinking about keeping it, I think.”

His mother took a beat, studying his face before she gave a resolute nod. “Okay. Then I’m excited. I can’t _wait_ to meet your wee one, Steven.”

“I already told the, um, the sire? It’s Bucky? Natasha’s friend?”

Sarah had met Natasha a few days after the rally, and it had only taken a few minutes before they were chatting like old friends. She’d taken a little longer to warm up to Clint, but after that day, she’d been happy to hear about them any time. Bucky had only been mentioned a few times in passing, but Steve hoped that mentioning his connection to Natasha would be helpful. 

“You two aren’t together?” she asked, and there was a note of something he couldn’t read in her voice. He shook his head. “Did you want to be?” 

Steve shrugged. “Maybe? I don’t know. But at this point… He’s being good about it, but I can’t think about that shit right now.”

“That’s fair,” she admitted. “I’ll need to meet him, of course.”

Steve snorted to hide a weary sigh. “Of course.”

“He’ll come to Sunday dinner.”

It sounded non-negotiable.

He nodded. “And Ma?”

Sarah tilted her head.

“Just out of curiosity, what would you have said if I wanted to get rid of it?”

She offered a small self-deprecating smile. “I’ve never liked the French, but a vacation to Paris sounds wonderful.”

***  
“So, I know we talked on the phone about increasing the frequency of your visits, but you didn’t go into detail. Do you wanna talk about that today?” 

Bucky, tucked into the small armchair, shot Banner a slightly irritated glance. “It seems like kind of a waste of your time not to,” he said.

Banner nodded in that serene way he had. Sometimes Bucky got irritated about his whole zen persona, but he reminded himself every time he came to Banner’s office that it was unreasonable to expect a _therapist_ to not be well adjusted. That was basically their whole thing.

“I got someone pregnant,” Bucky revealed because regardless of whether being antagonistic with your therapist was healthy or not, he really wanted to see the reaction that would garner.

Disappointingly, Banner only quirked his mouth up. “I take it this wasn’t planned?”

“You can say that again,” Bucky scoffed. “It’s basically a disaster.”

“Why do you say that?” Banner asked.

“Because I’m at best ill-equipped to be a father. It’s Steve. The guy I was telling you about a month ago? The one I decided I couldn’t be in a relationship with because I’m not at a place in my life where that’s possible.”

Banner sat up a bit. “And I think, after our discussion about that, that it was a good decision to tell him that, even if he confronted you before you made the active choice to have the conversation.”

“Yeah, well the conversation might as well have been useless, right? Because now I just have a different person who might have to rely on me _along_ with Steve,” Bucky snapped.

“I imagine you’re issue is that you might be a bad support system for Steve?”

Bucky shook his head. “Not might. I will be. And I want to be there for him. It’s at least half my fault that we’re in this situation, although it’s more like mostly my fault.”

“Bucky, is that a reasonable statement? To hold yourself completely responsible for that?”

Bucky ran his hand through his hair roughly. “I should have used protection. I didn’t. Hence, my fault.”

“Did you and Steve discuss protection beforehand?”

“No.”

“We’re the two of you in your right minds?”

“No.”

“So how could it be solely your fault?” Banner asked gently.

Bucky shrugged. “I’m the alpha. I should have had something with me.”

Banner had a _field_ day with that statement.

Instead of discussing the issue at hand, Banner spent the entirety of the rest of their session repeating his oft-repeated explanation that Bucky shouldn’t hold himself to arbitrary standards of masculinity. It was frustrating, to say the least, but he knew on some level he needed to hear it. They’d tackled it at least once a month since he’d started going to therapy, and he knew it was important to unlearn the ideas about how he performed being an alpha. 

But it felt like fucking nothing compared to the much larger issue of the impending child he was about to fuck up. Banner assured him they’d talk about that next week.

He knew shit like this was important. They’d had endless conversations about why his own self-image and his responses to the world needed to be deconstructed and discussed. If he changed how he thought about things, it would inevitably equip him to deal with issues in day to day life. But Bucky still felt unprepared for his life outside of this building.

He was walking to his car, ready to go home and hide for a few hours, when his phone began to ring. 

It was Becca, which wasn’t normally anxiety-inducing, but as he answered his throat began to get tight.

“Bucky-boy!” she exclaimed. 

“Hey Becs,” he replied, sounding exhausted even to his own ears. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked because Bucky couldn’t catch a break.

How the hell did he even answer that question? Becca was the most treasured person in his life, and she had been since he was a child and he figured out that everyone else in his family was actually bat-shit insane. If he could confide in any of them, it was her. Telling Clint and Tasha was still off the table until Steve gave him the go ahead-he’d told Wanda and Sam before Bucky, but it felt different for _Bucky_ to tell their friends without asking. Becca was different though, because she didn’t know Steve outside of Instagram, and she was _his_ sister. Plus, there was the added benefit that she might be more helpful than Banner had been. And he recognized that he needed to talk to someone about this.

He must have been quiet for too long, because Becca repeated his name into the phone. It decided for him. He couldn’t think of a lie on the fly, and now she knew there was something wrong.

With confidence he didn’t feel, Bucky told her _exactly_ what was wrong. 

“Steve is pregnant. Because of me. _I_ got Steve pregnant.”

“What?” Becca yelped. “ _James Buchanan Barnes_ , what the fuck?”

“What?” he repeated, surprisingly calm for the situation.

“When did you sleep with Steve? You didn’t tell me you and Steve were a _thing_.”

“That’s because we’re not,” Bucky snapped. “I would have told you if I started dating. And I might have told you that Steve and I hooked up once a couple of months ago if you hadn’t let mom _ambush_ me.”

“Oh, Buck,” Becca breathed. “What are you guys going to do?”

Bucky let out a little desperate laugh. “Fuck, Becca. I mean, I don’t know. Steve decided he wants to keep it. I think...I think he’s sure about that, but I don’t know. And I have no fucking idea how much he wants me to be involved. But like…”

“It’s okay to freak out, Bucky,” Becca told him. 

“I feel like an asshole. He’s the one actually going through shit, but I don’t know how much I could help him. I’m a wreck, Becs.”

Becca didn’t let him get away with talk like that, though. “You are _not_ a wreck, James Buchanan. You are an amazing, hardworking, kind man. This isn’t, like, ideal. But that baby would be lucky to have you as a father.”

“I...thanks Bec,” he said. He didn’t feel much better, but he knew she was only doing her best to reassure him. “This is still going to be so fucking difficult.”

He heard Becca heave a sigh, like she was deliberating about what she might say. His sister was usually unfalteringly honest with him, when she could be, but she also knew his limits on tough love and honesty. 

“Yeah,” she finally said. “Like I said, this isn’t ideal. But I _know_ you. It might not feel like it, but you’re not hopeless. You will be able to handle this. And if you need anything-if Steve needs anything, I want you to call me, okay? I’ll field mom for as long as I can, and if you need any money, please let me know.”

“Becca,” he sighed.

She didn’t let him complain about that, cutting in immediately. “You’re my little brother, Bucky. It’s my job to take care of you. If that means keeping mom off your back and lending you money until you become all rich and successful, I can manage that.”

“I’m going to have to tell her at some point,” he pointed out.

Becca laughed. “Yeah, but there are strategies we can use to make it as painless as possible. How open do you think Steve would be to converting?”

Bucky let out a loud bray of laughter, imagining the arguments Steve and his mother might be capable of getting into, before that image took a...loud...turn and he blanched. “Oh, God. Fuck, Becca, they’re going to hate each other.”

***

“I need you to be nice to him,” Steve said, for the third time within the hour.

Sam, who’d been incredibly kind to show up for dinner with Riley in tow, sat on the couch with his boyfriend, probably laughing at Steve and his mother glaring at each other in the kitchen.

“I’m not going to be cruel, Steven,” Ma assured him, also for the third time. “But you can’t expect me to be chipper.”

“ _Mother_ ,” Steve said through gritted teeth, “what happened to the woman who taught me about freedom of choice and responsibility? Bucky’s not responsible for _my_ actions.”

“He’s responsible for _his_ ,” she replied breezily. Without letting Steve reply, she turned back to the stove, stirring unnecessarily.

Steve let out a yell of frustration. “Mom, I just need you to _promise_ you won’t yell at him.”

Perhaps sensing that this could get ugly, Sam and Riley left the couch to crowd into the kitchen.

“I don’t think your mom is going to give Barnes that hard a time,” Sam assured him. Riley looked doubtful of that, but he gave his own nod in agreement nonetheless.

“I’m just-” Steve shook his head.

Sarah turned to give him an assessing look. “If he’s as good as you say, I don’t see why I’d yell,” she told him.

“You said you were going to give him a piece of your mind!” Steve shouted, hands thrown in frustration. “What was I supposed to take away from that?”

“I’m not going to say anything to him _his_ mother probably won’t say to you, dearie. You're my son. I have to say _something_.”

“You _really_ don't,” Steve muttered. Unfortunately, he didn’t have all night to argue with his mother. With another parting glare, Steve left the kitchen to change in his room. 

He had about fifteen minutes until Bucky was supposed to arrive, and even if it was going to be a disaster, his mother wasn’t going to let him stay in his painting overalls for Sunday dinner. 

The tradition had started when she was a child and her grandmother had insisted on the entire Kelly clan getting together so she could see her grandchildren, and his mother took it to America with her. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t spoken to her family in about twenty years, or that most of the time it was just Steve and Sarah in attendance; Steve was expected to dress neatly, and if they had guests that went double.

He shrugged out of the overalls, leaving them piled on the floor by his dresser. He tried to avoid his reflection as he shrugged on a blue button-up.

Now that his pregnancy had been revealed to him, the signs practically screamed out from the mirror every time he took the time to look. Even at 10 weeks, the slight rounding of his stomach was obvious on his slim frame, and the veins along his torso had become more and more obvious just under his skin. That was along with the symptoms that had first pushed him to go to a doctor. His nausea was bad, although the advice his mother had given was working a little. The fatigue was a fucking menace, hitting him at all hours of the day; if he could, he would have started taking naps, but he was simply too busy to indulge his tired body. 

As it was, Steve only glanced at himself briefly, eyes scanning his changing body for a second before he started briskly buttoning his shirt. He jumped and shimmied into his skinny jeans. Even as he was slipping his feet into a comfortable pair of sneakers, he heard the buzzer go.

Steve rushed out of his room, not bothering to tie his shoes, and was only just beaten to the punch by his mother.

“Come on up, dearie,” she replied to whatever Bucky had said.

“Thank you,” came Bucky’s tinny reply. 

Steve huffed, letting her know just how he appreciated the explicit power play. His mother shot him a smug smile before turning back to the kitchen.

“Dinner will be done in a few minutes, Steven. Sam offered to set the table. You can run down and prepare the boy for your evil mother if you want,” she told him over her shoulder.

Rolling his eyes, Steve yanked open the apartment door. Maybe she thought she was funny, but he was going to do _exactly_ that. 

Bucky came up the stairs at a jog, a bouquet clutched tightly in his hand. Steve’s heart swelled a little at the look of abject terror on his face.

“Bucky, you didn’t have to bring flowers,” he sighed, even though he was secretly delighted by the gesture. His mother was going to absolutely eat it up.

Bucky shrugged uncomfortably. “Um, I just thought it would be polite to do. I know I didn’t absolutely have to, but you know. I want to make a good impression.”

He laughed. “I think you’ll be fine. But my mother is a lot. If she says something wild, I promise she’s just joking. And I asked Sam and Riley to be here so she’ll probably spend some time bothering Sam for not telling her he was dating again.”

“Nice strategy, Rogers,” Bucky joked, but Steve could tell it was taking a lot out of him to be casual about all this. 

He shrugged. “I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable. This whole thing sucks, but it doesn’t have to be awful, you know?”

Bucky chuckled. With a shake of his head, he said, “We still have to tell my family at some point. Nothing could be worse than that.”

Whatever expression crossed Steve’s face only made Bucky laugh harder.

“Yeah, I’m sorry, but short of my sister running off to elope with a stranger, nothing is going to take _my_ mother’s focus off of us.”

***

Steve led Bucky into the kitchen hesitantly, like they were about to head onto the battlefield, but Bucky had meant what he said. There was really nothing Steve’s mother could do to outshine whatever his mother’s reaction would be. According to what he’d heard from Tasha, Sarah Rogers was amazing.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t anxious, of course, but it was less of a raging fire and more of a slow boil. It did help that Sam and Riley were there, and he was grateful to Steve for thinking of that, but he was also embarrassed that Steve even had to think about Bucky’s emotions at a time like this.

“Ma,” Steve called out just as they entered the kitchen. Sam and Riley were visible from further in the apartment, bustling around a table with plate and cutlery in their hands, but Bucky trained his gaze instead on the tiny blonde woman bending over the oven.

She was small, yes, but there was a plumpness to her that Steve lacked, and her hair was a similar shade but there were strands of silver shot through the gold. When she turned with a broad smile and a huge glass pan of something cheesy and steaming, Bucky attempted a charming smile. His fingers clutched tighter at the lilies he’d picked up from the florist earlier, and he tried to project “someone you would be fine raising your grandchildren” energy, whatever the fuck that was. 

“Oh, he’s big,” Sarah Rogers exclaimed, straightening fully so she could place the dish on top of the stove. She had a fairly obvious Irish accent, which surprised Bucky. No one had mentioned that she was Irish. 

“Ma, oh my god,” Steve groaned, and Bucky realized what she’d said.

It was true, comparatively. Steve and she looked like they were of a height, and Bucky towered over Steve, the blond’s head only barely coming up over his shoulder. It made sense to notice. It made him feel huge and clumsy, though, and he had to restrain himself from shrinking under her gaze.

“I-uh, well I was going to say thank you but I didn’t do anything,” Bucky stuttered.

Sarah giggled at his awkwardness. “You know, omegas always say they want a tall man until it’s time to have the babies.”

Bucky cheeks filled with heat, and when he glanced at Steve in disbelief, he looked equally red all the way to the tips of his ears.

“I will leave, right now,” Steve growled, but there was a relief in the set of his shoulders that Bucky didn’t miss. 

Obviously, when he mentioned jokes he meant comments like that. Once again, Bucky was comfortable in the knowledge that this was going to be a cake walk compared to Winifred and George Barnes. When he finally worked up the nerve to tell them about Steve’s pregnancy, there wasn’t going to be any jokes. 

“You don’t get to back out of this, Rogers,” Riley called from the dining room. “You made your bed.”

“Don’t mention beds,” Sam laughed. “Sarah will have a field day!”

Bucky’s blush only worsened.

Sarah waved a dismissive hand through the air. “Oh, don’t worry dearie, we’ll take it easy on you. Steve will have a conniption if we don’t.”

Bucky glanced at Steve gratefully.

“Okay, okay, everyone shut up. Bucky, give my mother those flowers already.”

He jumped forward at the order, hand shooting out in Sarah’s direction. The smile he got in return was sunny and bright and he felt his tension easing little by little.

“Ma, this is Bucky Barnes,” Steve announced, as if the beginning of their conversation hadn’t even happened. “Bucky, this is my mother, Sarah.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Bucky,” Sarah said, taking the lilies away from him.

“It’s nice to meet you too, Mrs. Rogers,” he replied, retracting his hand and trying to rub it covertly against his leg in an effort to lessen the amount of sweat.

“Please call me Sarah,” she replied dutifully. With that, she turned to rustle through the cabinets, probably in search of a vase. “Now, this just needs to get to the table and we can eat.”

Bucky moved forward to take the pan, an instinctual need to be helpful taking over, before he realized it was really a job for two hands. He faltered, and before he could figure out an approach, Steve fluttered past him, shoving small hands into the oven mitts Sarah had discarded and hefting the huge dish of food.

“I could-” Bucky tried to say, but Steve just shook his head.

“If I let a guest help out, Ma will flip,” Steve told him.

Sarah sent Steve a sharp look. “That I would, boy-o. Bucky, why don’t you head into the dining room now with Steve. I just have to find a vase for these lovely flowers.”

“Oh, I. Of course ma’am,” he stuttered.

Steve snorted and strode out of the kitchen without another glance back at the pair of them. Bucky ducked slightly, cheeks pinking up once more, and followed.

Sam and Riley had finished setting the table and were both slouched down at one corner giggling at each other. Bucky rolled his eyes at the blissful happiness they were currently broadcasting-and had been for weeks. Natasha and Clint had made a few faux-resentful quips after the Halloween outing, when they’d come home and detailed the shame they’d felt being upstaged in the couple's costume department. They’d been so sure that going as Robin Hood and Maid Marian for the second year in a row was going to clinch it for them, but then Sam and Riley had appeared, dressed as Maverick and Goose.

According to Clint, it had _“Basically ruined our whole night. Trust me, Bucky, we didn’t have_ any _fun!”_

Which, while that was an unsubtle and insulting ploy to make Bucky feel better for not going-something he’d decided not only because he was a mess, but also because Tasha had told him Steve wasn’t going either-it didn’t change the fact that Clint had been upset that Riley and Sam had the objectively better idea. Clint just refused to wear a costume that didn’t happen to include his archery fetish, and Natasha was committed to making him happy, for some reason.

“Will you two stop being so happy?” Steve asked. “It’s triggering my morning sickness.”

He set the large dish in the center of the table with a gentleness that suggested he would have plopped it down if his mother wasn’t in the next room and might object to his handling of her glassware.

Sam snorted. “It is 6 pm, Steven. When are you going to stop calling it that?”

Riley looked a tad more apologetic, straightening up a bit in his seat and sending Sam a scolding look. “That’s actually pretty common. When my dam was pregnant with my little brother he only really got sick in the afternoon. It hits everyone differently.”

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, guilt eating him over how uncomfortable Steve must feel. He’d done some brief and traumatizing research on pregnancy over the last few days and none of it sounded fun. “Is it still real bad?” he asked softly.

Steve shot him an unreadable look. “Now that I know what’s going on, I’ve been better about avoiding anything that makes it worse. Plus my mom’s buying ginger ale in bulk.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Bucky offered lamely. “Do you- Can I help?”

He cringed immediately. Bucky had no idea what he intended to do to help Steve with morning sickness. 

There was a softness to Steve’s expression when he asked, though, that made Bucky a little breathless. He opened his mouth, and Bucky’s heart stuttered while he waited for Steve to respond. 

“I hope you like scalloped potatoes!” Sarah exclaimed as she entered the dining room. 

Bucky jumped a little at the noise, head whipping around to see Sarah glancing between him and her son with her hands on her hips. She was smirking at him knowingly.

He wanted to ask her just what she knew, because he was fucking lost here.

The last thing Steve and he needed was to complicate their already complicated relationship with _feelings_. Bucky was barely coping as it was, and Steve deserved someone actually capable of normal human interactions. Before he could dwell on that, however, Steve was tugging his hand and gesturing for him to take a seat at the table.

Bucky realized that Sarah’s comment demanded an answer, so he squinted down at the dish. “I, uh, I think we had it at my great uncle’s funeral.” 

It looked familiar enough when Sarah dug into it with a large plastic serving spoon.

Everyone was a little taken aback by his pronouncement, and it threatened to send Bucky into a shame spiral for darkening the mood so quickly, but Sam came to the rescue.

“Well, I don’t know about _all that,_ but Sarah’s an amazing cook.”

And Bucky was going to have to simply assume she was because as Sarah began dishing a large helping onto his plate, he realized that there was ham in the potatoes.

“Oh, um. I’m...that’s ham, right?” he asked, wincing even as he spoke.

“Fuck!” Steve exclaimed, snatching Bucky’s plate away in a second. “Bucky I’m so sorry. I completely forgot. Goddamnit!”

“What?” Sarah asked, looking frantic, expression mirroring her son’s almost eerily.

“I’m Jewish,” Bucky offered weakly. “I’m sorry. I’m not like, super strict or anything, but I try not to-”

“He doesn’t eat pork, Ma,” Steve snapped, and he looked a little wild-eyed. “And I was supposed to tell you that, and I fucking forgot like an asshole.”

Bucky blinked at Steve, baffled by his reaction to what was basically a microscopic mistake. It wasn’t like Bucky was _allergic_ or anything. “It’s not a big deal,” Bucky tried to assure him, but Steve didn’t seem like he wanted to be talked down.

“No, because I was making such a big deal about this,” Steve said breathlessly. “Ma, I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

And if he didn’t feel bad enough about making a fuss even though Sarah had probably slaved over this food, then Steve just started _crying_. 

No one seemed to know what to do for a second, all of staring at Steve like he’d just spontaneously combusted.

“I’m sorry,” Steve repeated, and Bucky wasn’t sure if it was because he was crying or the ham or what.

“I don’t,” Bucky trailed off, making an abortive motion to pat Steve on the back, but Steve hunched over the table, covering his face and letting out a loud sob. Bucky jerked his hand away, tucking it into his lap so he couldn’t make this worse.

“Steven,” Sarah murmured, standing so she could put a comforting hand at the back of his neck. “It’s alright, dearie. Everyone is alright.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Steve practically wailed.

Sam and Riley stood quietly, ducking out of the room with twin looks of concern and embarrassment. Bucky stared after them, wondering if he should leave too, but then Steve raised his head and turned those big blue eyes on him. They shone with tears, and Bucky felt close to swallowing his own tongue. He felt guilty for how beautiful he found Steve when he was crying.

“I’m probably freaking you out right now,” Steve said miserably. He tucked his head back and sobbed harder. 

Bucky just looked at him helplessly. 

“Steven, this is normal. Don’t feel ashamed of a little cry,” Sarah said, fussing with his hair.

“I can eat around the ham,” Bucky told him, surprised at the vehemence of his words. “I ate bacon once at camp. And my mom doesn’t need to know.”

If it made Steve feel better, he’d eat an entire roast pig right that second.

***

“Do you hear that, Stevie?” his Ma prodded. “Bucky’s not mad.”

Steve _knew_ Bucky wasn’t mad. He might be a bit emotionally repressed, and Steve knew that his first instinct was to panic, but he _really_ wasn’t a dickhead. Bucky was a sweetheart. And his Ma was handling all of this very well.

It was _Steve_ that was the issue, having a meltdown about absolutely nothing. 

It didn’t _feel_ like nothing, however. He’d been nervous about this dinner all day, and the way he’d harped at his mother before Bucky showed up had been out of pocket. The fact that he hadn’t even thought to inform his poor mother that Bucky had a pretty fucking simple dietary restriction just made it seem even more unreasonable. 

And maybe he was still freaking out about being pregnant. Maybe he was wondering about his choices. He got the sickening feeling that there wasn’t going to be some big epiphany. Steve was going to have to continuously make this choice for the next 18 or so years. That was terrifying. Everything was terrifying and there were no easy answers. It wasn’t fair. Steve had never considered himself naive before, but nothing he’d read in books or seen in movies prepared him for the level of melodrama in his life right now.

Bucky was taking it like a champ, honestly. He’d barely blinked an eye when Steve told him he wanted to keep the baby, and he’d agreed to Sunday dinner easily enough, even though this was probably just as stressful for him as it was for Steve.

He looked up again, seeing just how lost Bucky looked.

“You’re just being so nice,” he moaned.

Sarah’s hand paused on his back, and he could just imagine what she might have to say about all of that, but Bucky beat her to it.

“Steve, uh, I don’t really know what you’re talking about but I’m kind of doing the bare minimum here,” he said. “I mean, I want to be there. But that doesn’t mean I’m a saint or anything. It’s the least of what I should be doing.”

The tension he’d felt go through his mother’s body lessened slightly, but Steve couldn’t let Bucky think he wasn’t doing _anything_. 

“I know what I deserve,” Steve told him. “And I’m not calling you a saint. But...just knowing you’re going to be there is helping, Bucky. I promise.”

The alpha looked slightly blindsided by his words, and Steve couldn’t help laughing a little at him for that. 

“Can we come back in now?” Sam called from the living room. “Maybe _Barnes_ can’t have any, but I’m not letting Sarah’s cooking go to waste.”

“Sam Wilson, you hush,” Sarah called back with a bright laugh. “No one told you to run away. Just like you to rush out at the first sign of Steve crying.”

Sam rushed back in, looking affronted. “Sarah, Steve never cries. I thought there might be a gas leak!”

“Shut up!” Steve grumbled. “I didn’t make fun of you when you called me sobbing during the Bachelorette finale.”

“Oh, but I cry all the time,” Sam countered. 

Riley nodded. “He really does.”

“I used to cry for the ugly vegetables at the grocery store,” Bucky cut in, offering a self-deprecating smile. “I felt bad that they weren’t being picked.”

“That’s because you’re both overdramatic!” Steve huffed. 

His mother threw her head back and laughed long and loud at that one. Steve sent her an irritated frown, folding his arms in front of himself. “What?”

She shook her head. “Steven, you’re the most dramatic little brat I know. You’ve got nothing to say on these two nice young men.”

They ended up ordering pizza so Bucky didn’t starve.

They squabbled goodnaturedly for the rest of the night, too.

It was nice.

His mother really liked Bucky, who’d relaxed as they ate and shown just how charming he could be. Steve really liked a Bucky that felt confident enough in himself to joke and be a little over the top. 

After Bucky had gone home, and Sam and Riley had followed a few minutes after, his Ma turned to him with a little smirk.

“He’s a pretty one, isn’t he?” she asked, prodding him gently in the ribs.

“Ma, don’t!” he laughed.

“And he’s not as bad as Sam suggested. A little nervous, but who wouldn’t be, meeting the mother of the omega he got pregnant,” she said with a shrug. “I don’t know, he seems good. And _you_ certainly have stars in your eyes.”

“I do _not_ ,” he said quickly. She looked like she didn’t believe a word he was saying, which was fair because he was _lying,_ but still. He heaved a sigh.

“Bucky and I already talked. We’re not going to try dating. If I...if I don’t change my mind about,” he waved a hand at his stomach. “You know, about it all...We can’t complicate things with something messy.”

“Babies are messy, Steven. It’s good that the wee one will have you both, and I’m not gonna push for traditionalism as long as I live, but don’t ignore feelings or run away from that boy if you don’t have to.”

“Ma,” he groaned.

She was making all of this too complicated, too thorny, when he just wanted things to be simple where they could. 

He was still wrapping his mind around being a dam; he couldn’t get caught up in strategizing and crafting a plan of attack on the whole _Bucky_ situation. 

***

As November drew nearer to a close, Steve tried not to let the Rambeau show take over his life. It was hard.

Between finding an OB and furiously finishing up projects for class, it felt like the only respite, simply because all he had to do was wait. He’d gotten through to the last round of candidates, against all of his expectations, and he knew he’d hear about it all before fall break. He’d have until January 3rd to present his audition piece, and then he’d be told whether he could create something to be exhibited. All of that was rightfully anxiety-inducing, but it had _nothing_ on what was going on in his uterus.

The mood swings had gotten _truly_ wild. He’d be in class, blearily taking in the critique of his peers and calmly deciding whether what they said was bullshit or good advice, and suddenly someone would say something mildly critical and he’d be crying. It had gotten so bad he’d had to make a slightly embarrassed announcement during his studio session. Loki was the only one who took it badly, scoffing at Steve and wondering just what he’d been thinking. As if _Loki_ had a fucking say in what he did with his body. 

Fortunately, he’d been able to foist the job of telling Natasha and Clint off on Bucky, and while Clint had seemed a little hurt that he hadn’t been told the next time they all hung out, Nat was taking it in stride. 

Other than those who he saw regularly, no one else really knew. He’d been shamefully trawling around on pregnancy forums when he had free time, and they all advised that you keep the news to immediate friends and family where you could for the first trimester. Even if he didn't want to follow that advice, Bucky’s sister Becca had reached out to him on Instagram and tried to explain as delicately as possible that Bucky’s mother was likely to be checking up on his social media for _some_ reason. 

When Steve had asked Bucky about it, rightfully weirded out, Bucky had only stammered out that his mother had some weird ideas about privacy, and Becca had mentioned Steve at lunch once.

“She does this to all my friends,” he confessed, blushing so furiously Steve could tell over the shitty Facetime connection. “I was in one of your pictures. She, uh, she does the same thing to Tasha.”

“So what do you want me to do?” Steve asked. 

Bucky pushed a big breath through his lips. “I mean, I don’t know. I know I have to tell her soon, but I just don’t want you to have to deal with all of her crazy right now. You should at least get to enjoy the break before my mother asks you to convert.”

Steve couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. “She’s not actually going to ask me to convert, is she?”

The look on Bucky’s face killed his laughter. “Who’s to say.”

“Don’t you have to learn Hebrew?” Steve asked.

Bucky nodded.

“Would I get to have a Bar Mitzvah?”

Bucky snorted. “Yes. But you do not want Winifred Barnes to throw your bar mitzvah, Steve. I promise it’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Do I still get to ask for money though?” he asked, simply to keep Bucky smiling.

He knew Bucky was stressing out about talking to his family. Becca seemed nice-he’d still yet to meet her, but after she reached out on Instagram they’d struck up a lively texting relationship. She was funny. It was less of an issue for Steve, simply because it wasn’t his family and he’d luckily already cleared that hurdle, but he understood the logic of building a positive relationship with his child’s other grandparents. If it was his choice, he’d just call and drop the news from a safe distance, but he was letting Bucky handle it. 

Really laughing now, Bucky shook his head at him.

“Is that a no or are you just ashamed of me?” Steve giggled. “Because I’m just being pragmatic here, Buck. This kid’s gonna need to eat and artists don’t make bank right off the bat.”

“Are you kidding me?” Bucky cried. “Steve, I’ve seen your stuff. You’re gonna be in museums, pal.”

Steve rolled his eyes, not bothering to respond to the blatant flattery. “Just let me know when you decide to tell her. I can be there if you want. You know, as moral support. Or backup.”

“I think I’d need a whole regiment to adequately back me up on this one, Stevie,” Bucky sighed. “I might wait until after Thanksgiving. I’m fine with ruining Hanukkah-someone always ruins Hanukkah in the Barnes family-but Bubbe makes the best pecan pie in the world.”

“You’ve never had Darlene Wilson’s pecan pie,” Steve argued. “I’m telling you right now, Buck, there’s no competition. That woman is a master in the kitchen.”

“Don’t even start, Rogers. You think Wilson didn’t try to tell me the same thing already? I’ll believe it when I see it!”

Steve smiled, feeling terribly at ease while he listened to Bucky boast about his grandmother’s baking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm probably gonna regret saying this but, I think chapter 5 is going to be the monster I warned about. 
> 
> There will be Thanksgiving drama, there will be existential art crises, there will be Dolly Parton, and I will reveal my deep love of Pete Seeger...etc etc.
> 
> Let me know what y'all thought!


	5. you're awful young for 21, you've got some work to do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the Wild Reeds' song Capable. Check them out they're great. 
> 
> Another pretty long chapter. (Sorry that I didn't spend more time on Dolly, but I promise it will be a Discussion in the future, lmao)
> 
> Another hearty thank you to my beta.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy! Please let me know down in the comments what you thought!  
> *Edited 2/11/2021*

_November cont._

Wanda was going to be the death of them all.

Whatever this place was, Bucky felt like it would be his last known whereabouts. He peered around the cramped, cluttered little shop and tried to parse just what it was they were even _selling_. 

He was concerned about the amount of taxidermy.

“Why are we even here?” Clint groaned. “I thought we were getting dinner.”

Riley looked like he agreed. Tasha looked...well she could be unreadable on the best of days, but Bucky was already in the doghouse with her, so she wasn’t really giving him anything to work with. He needed to deal with that at some point.

“We have to find something for Steve,” Wanda answered like it was obvious.

Bucky turned to the fully mounted rabbit on the display by his waist and gave it a pointed look. “And you think this is a good place to look?”

“Oh, stop being judgmental!” Wanda exclaimed, stomping away with a dramatic swish of her shawl. “I didn’t bring you guys here for no reason!”

“I haven’t known Steve that long, but...” Riley began, “I don’t think he wants Thumper immortalized forever.”

“I thought Steve’s birthday was in June,” Tasha said, which was a really good point, except…

“His birthday is on July fourth,” Bucky corrected. “Is this a Christmas shopping outing?”

Wanda shot them all a dirty look over her shoulder. “This is an ‘I’m sorry you found out you were pregnant but congrats anyway’ gift. _And_ a Christmas shopping outing.”

Bucky winced.

“We came here over the summer,” Wanda continued. “We were looking through their record collection, but Steve didn’t get anything because he’s Steve. I was thinking each of us could pitch in for one or two. They’re not that expensive. If you want to get him something else, that’s fine, but we should get him something fun too.”

Well, that made a little more sense than getting him the nicotine-stained portrait of a possessed Victorian child peering at him from the wall. He gave said portrait a wide berth as he made to follow Wanda deeper into the warren of overly cluttered shelves. As he was passing Clint, he heard him muttering to Tasha.

“Does that mean we have to get Bucky a present here too?” he asked.

Tasha only scoffed.

He really hoped the answer was no. Bucky absolutely did not deserve gifts, and if his friends tried to get him a gift he might die of shame. Not to mention that there was nothing here he could possibly want.

“What kind of music does Steve like?” Riley asked. “ _Besides_ depressing indie garbage?”

“Rude!” Wanda shot back immediately, protective of her own love of depressing indie garbage. 

“He likes godawful punk shit too,” Sam offered, knowing full well that Wanda would take offense to that too. The glare it earned him only confirmed that.

Wanda led them all the way to the back of the store, into a dimly lit room absolutely crammed with cardboard boxes full of old records in sleeves, beaten up CD cases, and weathered casette tapes. Bucky stepped inside and began to cautiously exam the nearest box. He couldn’t find any rhyme or reason to the boxes. They weren’t sorted alphabetically _or_ by genre.

He raised his gaze and shot Wanda a panicked look. “What are we looking for? Did he mention what he wanted?”

Sam laughed. “That’s not how Steve works. He listens to basically anything. The point is to find something _you_ like and give it to him.”

“Is it like a sentimental thing?” Tasha asked.

Wanda answered before Sam could, smirking. “No, no. It’s about being judgemental. You share the music you like with Steve and if he doesn’t like it he gets to roast you. It’s fun!”

Clint looked lost. “That...doesn’t sound fun at all.”

“Nah, it’s pretty fun. Steve’s a total asshole about it, but sometimes he says some wild ass bullshit and you get to clown him _back_ ,” Sam promised. 

Bucky and Riley exchanged a dubious look, but Tasha grinned, practically bouncing with excitement at the prospect. It was no surprise that a weird ritual involving hating on a friend’s taste would appeal to her. 

Still feeling a little off-balance, knowing that Steve would be intentionally critical of anything he picked, Bucky turned back to the box of music. He’d heard the type of stuff Steve liked. They’d been Facetiming a lot recently, and Steve didn’t turn his music off when they talked, although if he was in a gracious mood he turned it down. It was a lot of yelling, mostly, and sometimes there were synthesizers. 

Bucky wasn’t particularly picky himself, and he’d never been under the impression that the stuff he listened to was particularly niche. With trepidation he scanned a few scratched up CDs, searching for a name he recognized, or even just something that might signify a genre. For some reason, this choice felt important. He was diligent, although he didn’t want to cheat and Google the band names. Anything fairly mainstream was set aside, simply because it felt like a cop-out. 

Clint was the first to make his choice, holding up a vintage Conway Twitty record in triumph. “If that monster says anything against Twitty, I will strike him down to the cheers of my terrible Midwestern ancestors!” he exclaimed.

Tasha whacked him on the arm, shushing him.

The rest of his friends settled throughout the next half hour, he and Wanda being the last to pick. 

Wanda flashed a cassette tape that looked like it might have gone through the washer, not giving them enough to parse what it said, and Bucky looked for encouragement when he showed them all a relatively well-cared-for looking copy of Pete Seeger’s _If I Had a Hammer_. Sam grinned when he saw it.

“You’re a fucking kiss up!” he exclaimed, shoving Bucky lightly.

“I just think he’ll like it,” Bucky replied, feeling a bit defensive. The truth was, he was playing a little safe. He _knew_ Steve liked protest music. Plus, Bucky himself had a healthy love for Pete himself. It was his Zaydeh’s favorite, and Bucky remembered many an afternoon spent in his Zaydeh’s beat-up Subaru singing along to catchy songs about the plight of the working man. 

“You’re all going to be sorry when Steve likes mine the best,” Tasha told them with a theatrical flip of her hair. She brandished her Dolly Parton CD like it was made of gold.

Clint rolled his eyes. “Who _doesn’t_ like Dolly Parton?” he scoffed.

***

“Is this Steven Rogers?”

Steve, perversely grateful that the sick feeling settling in his belly wasn’t from morning sickness, swallowed roughly.

“This is he,” he said croakily. 

He knew it was the Rambeau lady on the phone because he’d saved the number months ago. He also knew that they were calling to tell him if he was in the final round or not. This knowledge did nothing to calm his racing heart. Everything else going on in his life right now, and this was the one thing he absolutely needed to go right. He was doing his best to handle everything on his plate, but Steve wasn’t sure if he’d be able to get past a rejection. It wasn’t a healthy way to approach the situation, Sam could have told him that, but knowing that intellectually didn’t _change_ the fact that Steve wasn’t equipped for this conversation. 

“Hi, so I’m Daniela Ayala, with the Monica Rambeau Foundation. I just wanted to touch base with you about your entry into the Rambeau Student Exhibition.”

Steve shifted the phone in his grip, stumbling back a step so he could sit down hard on his bed. “I-uh, yeah. Um, this is about the last round of consideration, right?”

“It is, yes. Now, I’d like to just let you know that the Rambeau Foundation is thankful that you applied to be part of the showcase,” Daniela chirped. “We love to see the talent of New York City’s up-and-coming artists.”

Steve’s heart sunk. That didn’t sound like congratulations at all. 

“I appreciate that?” he said, but he didn’t have the energy reserves to fake cheeriness. He’d been exhausted for months, and every day he only got more uncomfortable. If this phone call was just some polite way of telling him he was kidding himself about applying, he wished they hadn’t bothered.

“And Mrs. Rambeau was really taken by some of the pieces in your portfolio,” Daniela continued, perhaps in an attempt to soften the blow.

Steve tried not to huff in annoyance. “That’s very flattering,” he managed.

“Yes! So we’ve sent a packet with your audition piece requirements. We have theming notes, and you’ll need to email our event coordinator if your piece is outside the suggested dimensions. That would mean special accommodations would need to be made. But don’t let that discourage you! Mrs. Rambeau loves to see out of the box stuff!”

“I’m sorry,” Steve began, completely lost at this point, “does that mean I got it?”

It seemed completely absurd. Steve wasn’t overly modest-he knew he was talented, and he would never have applied if there was no chance of getting in. In fact, the idea of applying for no reason was repellent to him, but it just seemed too good to be true. Nothing else in his life was going right at the moment, so why should this?

“Of course! Oh, I’m sorry, I was a little overly excited there, wasn’t I? Yes, Mr. Rogers, you’re going to be moving forward. You know your audition piece is due on January 3rd, right? The packet has all the details in it for submission.”

“I-yeah I know when it's due. And I-I’m definitely in? Like this isn’t an error?” he asked because he had to be absolutely sure.

The audition submission wasn’t completely perfunctory-if you handed in something unfinished or amateurish you wouldn’t be part of the exhibition, but Steve couldn’t help but believe that if this was all true, if Daniela hadn’t called the wrong candidate on accident, then he was really in. His place in the exhibition was secure.

“You’re definitely in, Mr. Rogers,” Daniela laughed. “Congratulations!”

“Thank you,” Steve breathed. He fell back, his head smacking into his thin pillow, and he stared up at the ceiling in disbelief. 

He was _in_. 

“Now, as I said, the informational packet is on its way to the address you supplied. If you have any questions not covered by the packet, please don’t hesitate to call. I might not be the one who answers, but just ask for me, because I’m the Artist Candidate’s point-of-contact, okay?”

“Yeah, I uh, yes thank you. Thank you so much,” Steve answered, basically on auto-pilot at this point.

“Well, I’m going to let you go Mr. Rogers. Congratulations once again!”

“You too,” Steve answered automatically, and the last thing he heard from Daniela before she hung up was a bright giggle. 

He was really in. As long as he didn’t completely fuck up Steve was on track to achieve something fucking amazing. 

What the fuck was he going to do now?

So much of his time had been taken up by worrying about this, and now there was only one last hurdle. What was he going to submit? It had to be a new work, obviously, and Daniela had mentioned Mrs. Rambeau had liked his portfolio. That was good, right? 

Steve had to tell his mother. He needed to tell Sam. He needed to-he needed to calm down a little bit because his breath was picking up right now and this should be _exciting_ news. 

Why wasn’t he more excited? 

Even after his mother got home and he shared his news, Steve couldn’t manage to scrape together something more than distant anxiety about the whole thing. His Ma was super happy, dancing through the living room with a big wide smile, and he made sure to project an appropriate level of joy, but he didn’t feel it. 

Not wanting to have to keep up the facade, when he settled into bed that night, he didn’t bother calling Sam or Facetiming Bucky about the audition. He sent a simple text about getting into the exhibition to the group-chat between all his friends and that was that. 

***

The day before fall break, Sam and Natasha both decided that everyone was going to get together. Clint and Nat were about to leave to see Clint’s sister in Iowa, and Wanda and Pietro had lucked into some discount train tickets out to Illinois, where their parents had settled after getting their citizenship two years ago. Riley was also going home to see family, but he had a few more days in the city before he left. 

With all of them getting prepared to split up, Sam and Nat were militant about this little hang out, and while Steve wanted to beg off in order to sit in his room and stare at a blank canvas for as long as he humanly could, they wouldn’t allow it, informing him that this was in part a celebration about him getting into the exhibition. They’d all argued incessantly about what they should do before settling on eating take-out in Sam’s tidy apartment and maybe playing some board games. 

“Once we’ve graduated and our parents aren’t as attached to seeing us every holiday, we should have a Friendsgiving,” Riley suggested over his carton of fried rice. 

Clint snorted. “Speak for yourself, pretty boy. My sister only lets me visit because she likes Nat.”

Steve frowned, turning to Bucky for confirmation of that information. Bucky offered a discreet shake of his head, before jostling Clint with his elbow.

“Shut up, Barton. Laura doesn’t just invite you for your girlfriend. She also gets about a week of peace while you watch her kids for her.”

Nat grinned. “And don’t pretend it’s a hassle, Clint. You love those little monsters.”

Clint didn’t even try to hide the fond smile the thought of his nieces and nephews brought on. “Yeah, they’re evil little gremlins but they’re damn cute.”

Wanda shook herself roughly. “At least you get to have a real dinner. Mama and Tate don’t even _celebrate_ Thanksgiving.”

“My mother hasn’t celebrated Thanksgiving yet,” Steve assured them. “She’s been here for more than twenty years and she hasn’t broken _once_.”

“Even if it damn near makes my mother cry,” Sam joked. “She’s been trying to get Sarah to host since we were in middle school.”

Steve rolled his eyes, “If Darlene took a year off she’d have a panic attack. That woman loves being in control of holiday dinner.”

Sam didn’t argue with that one.

“I wish my parents didn’t make a big deal about getting everyone together for Thanksgiving,” Bucky muttered. “My mother insists on cooking a huge ass dinner and it never works out how she wants.”

“She still doing the Hallmark song and dance?” Clint winced sympathetically. 

Bucky sighed. “Yeah. And David’s coming, so I won’t even get to avoid him because he’s in Boston with Amy’s family.”

“David’s your brother?” Steve asked, and Bucky gave a solemn nod.

Steve peered at him curiously. “He can’t be that bad.”

Steve didn’t have any siblings, obviously, but his experience of sibling relationships through Wanda and Pietro, as well as Sam and his sisters, indicated that they usually maintained a healthy love/hate balance. Plus, Becca seemed awesome, and Steve _knew_ Bucky was great. How bad could a third Barnes be?

Natasha laughed before Bucky couldn’t formulate a reply. “David Barnes is an experience on par with his mother.”

Steve expected Bucky to rush to his family’s expense, but he only offered Nat a commiserating glance.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Bucky told her.

Pietro leaned forward, suddenly curious. “What you apologizing for, Bucky?” Wanda batted at his arm, but Pietro didn’t let up. “Come on, let us in on the drama!”

Bucky heaved a big sigh, shooting a questioning look at Nat, who shrugged. “It’s not that interesting. David just made a real ass of himself when Nat and I dated. He was super rude any time I brought her around my family. Made some shitty comments.”

Steve froze in his chair, staring at Bucky as he felt something heavy sink in his stomach.

Bucky and Nat? Bucky and Nat had been a _thing_? 

He knew they were close-although lately they hadn’t been bantering and teasing as much as usual-but neither of them had ever thought to mention that they’d been together. 

As the evening wore on, he watched the pair, searching for any hint that they’d ever been romantic. Did they still have feelings for each other? Why was Bucky so relaxed about living with his ex and her current boyfriend? Was their past the reason Bucky didn’t want to pursue something with Steve? Why had they broken up?

The questions seemed to take over his brain, and Steve felt off-center, uncomfortable where he had been feeling good at the beginning of the evening. 

His hands kept drifting down to his middle, fingers skimming lightly at the slight rounding of his belly. At 12 weeks, he was noticeably pregnant to at least himself. He’d also passed the point of no return. Even if he’d wanted to flee to Europe, there was nowhere he could go where they’d legally be allowed to terminate a pregnancy. 

Steve, feeling shaky and unhappy, stood from his chair. He made a beeline for the bathroom, knowing no one would question him. His symptoms were finally fading-slightly-and he’d left behind the constant urge to piss recently, but he didn’t exactly let everyone _know_ that. They were used to Steve needing frequent bathroom breaks.

Once the door of Sam’s bathroom was closed between him and his friends, Steve stumbled to the sink, washing his hands briskly. 

The thing was, if Nat was the reason Bucky didn’t want to be with Steve, it made sense. Nat was amazing, and a break up with her would affect anyone. She was certainly prettier than Steve, and she wasn’t as prickly or scrawny, wasn’t as caustic or self-righteous. She and Bucky had probably had a really good relationship, Nat had probably known exactly how to deal with Bucky’s anxiety. And she definitely wasn’t fucking _pregnant_. Nat hadn't fucked up Bucky’s entire life and tied herself to him for 18 fucking years, hadn’t forced him to stumble through being a parent in his early twenties.

And now she was with Clint. Bucky was probably dealing with emotions Steve couldn’t understand, and he was being a good friend to both of them by ignoring them. 

Steve wasn’t anything to Bucky but an obligation, and he needed to remind himself of that. Even if Bucky couldn’t be with Nat, someday he’d find someone as great as her, someone who was not Steve. It was better for all of them if he got used to that right now and didn’t fool himself into thinking he could ask for more. 

This was an _obligation_ to Bucky. 

Steve let himself cry, hugging himself around the middle in front of the sink. 

But he couldn’t spend all night in the bathroom feeling sorry for himself. If _Sam_ saw, he’d never hear the end of it, and Steve didn’t feel like lying to Sam about what was wrong. The idea of telling him the truth was even more repulsive, because he knew Sam would try to convince him that Bucky didn’t see him as an obligation, because Sam was too good to see the reality of the situation. 

Steve steeled himself, splashing water on his tear-stained cheeks before wiping the moisture away with some toilet paper. Afterwards, he stared at himself in the mirror, searching for any sign that he’d been crying. 

***

Bucky spent about ten minutes sitting in his car, parked across the street from his childhood home, bracing for the oncoming shit-storm. 

Becca had texted him when she arrived twenty minutes ago, tipping him off that his Aunt Liz was there, which was never a good thing. Winifred had held a grudge against her sister-in-law since his parents had gotten married-some small incident at the wedding had birthed a life-long feud between the two outspoken woman that no one in the family would talk about-and every time she showed up to family events the resulting fall out was catastrophic. 

The impending blow-up was only adding to the anxiety that had sat in his stomach for days. After their get-together at Sam’s, Steve had been extremely cagey, not really talking to anyone and begging off phone calls and not responding to texts. Bucky knew he was nervous about the exhibition, but he’d been fairly upbeat when the take-out had been delivered. It felt like something might have happened, but there was nothing Bucky could remember that might have upset him. It sucked because Steve had been thrilled when his pregnancy symptoms had died down. 

Bucky had been reading about pregnancy as much as he could, and he’d happily told Steve that the second trimester was coming up, and it was supposed to be the easiest, most comfortable time. 

But now Steve wasn’t really talking to him, and Bucky wondered if he’d _done_ something. It hurt, not talking to him more often. He knew that being with Steve wasn’t really a good idea, not least because Steve deserved someone who could properly support him, but it didn’t change how much he cared for him. The new distance only made his feelings burn hotter.

And now he’d have to deal with his family while he feels like utter shit about the Steve situation. 

There was nothing for it. If he skipped dinner there would be no end to the complaining, to Winifred’s distraught victim act, as she begged Bucky to tell her just why he hated his family. And he couldn't tell her that that was bullshit, that staying away from them was the only way he could cope with them, that if he spent any more time with them he really _would_ just hate them. That was the rub, though, he was distant so that when Banner asked him about his relationship to his parents and David he could offer a vaguely positive endorsement. Anything more, and all the resentment and anxiety and anger would build up so much it would have to spill out. He had about twenty years of bullshit that already stirs in his gut, and adding to it wouldn't help anyone.

The only saving grace was Becca, and Bubbe when she was in a generous mood. They helped keep him grounded and remind him that he wasn't the crazy one, that his mother and her particular brand of parenting really was actually as bad as he knew it is. At least it provided a helpful negative example for his own child. If he and Steve managed one thing with this kid, he hoped it was not being like Winifred Barnes. Or George, for that matter.

Bucky got out of the car with a heavy pit of resigned dread sitting in the pit of his stomach. He waved politely to Mrs. Cannahan, their elderly next-door neighbor before jogging the final stretch up the front stoop of his parents Park Slope brownstone, the expensive monument to his mother’s need to show people exactly how well off they are. The need that David inherited and compelled him to stay in Manhattan even if his wife’s crazy fucking family insisted they travel to Boston at the drop of a hat. Because Manhattan screams success and Boston is “back-water” or whatever nonsense David used to justify his life choices.

Pausing at the door, ringing the bell, it was all part of the process. Maybe a few years ago he would have just strolled in, but at this point, he didn't want to appear too comfortable here. It was important to project the fact that he’s a guest in his parent's home now. He doesn’t live here, and as long as everything in his life didn't fall apart, he never would again. Waiting to be let in also has the added bonus of giving him extra time to school his expression into one of excitement. 

And maybe he should have started paying more attention at that point, maybe the fact that his cousin Debbie answered the door, little baby Eli on her hip should have tipped him off, but Bucky hasn't been around his family formally in a while, so he didn't catch it.

Debbie offered him a tight smile, which he chalked up to being stressed around the family because Debbie was a little like him and Becca, a little less keyed into every perceived slight or insult.

“Hey, Jamie,” she greeted, rocking slightly on her feet. Eli looked thrilled to see him, probably just because he was a new face and not because Bucky and he had spent any significant time together.

“Hey Debs,” he replied, happy to get a brief interlude with one of his least infuriating extended relations. “And how’s the little guy?”

“Two, so he’s basically evil,” Debbie sighed. Eli bounced at her hip, reaching his chubby little fingers out for Bucky to take. Bucky responded solemnly, giving Eli a firm shake, which sent the kid into mad giggles. “Yesterday he told Henry to move out of the house.”

Bucky laughed at the image of little Eli trying to evict his father from their apartment. “So has Henry start packing up or what?”

Eli lit up. “Dada? Where dada?”

Debbie grinned. “Oh, now Dad’s your friend again?”

Eli giggled. “Dada my friend!”

Debbie and Bucky shared a look that boiled down to “this kid is way too fucking cute” and Debbie stepped back, giving him the space to slide into the house. Once the door was solidly closed, Debbie extricated Eli’s grip on her sweater and set him down on the ground. The toddler took off without a look back, further into the house. He screamed for his father the entire way.

“How’s the family?” he asked as he began the slow work of getting himself out of his coat. Debbie was careful not to watch him too closely, keeping her eye movements politely disinterested. Bucky appreciated the effort, even if it was a little heavy-handed. Most of the rest of his extended family might have jumped in to help. 

“Mom and Dad went down to Florida to visit my Dad’s parents. Aunt Ida made a fuss but your mom was very nice about them not being able to make it. Lucy’s good, she just got into the pre-med program at Brown, so Mom was going to ask your dad to lend a hand with that.”

Bucky nodded, shrugging his coat all the way off and placing it carefully on the hook by the door. He started on his shoes next, feeling distinctly childish as he pushed his ugly brown slip-ons off his feet. Debbie leaned against the wall.

“How bad is it already?” he ventured.

Something weird crossed Debbie’s face, a look of panic and sympathy that put Bucky’s hackles up. 

“Um, Bucky…” she began, and then stopped, glancing back into the hallway as if checking that the coast was clear. “Becca is probably going to need to talk to you. She’s in the family room.”

Bucky wanted to ask her why, but talking to Becca took priority. With one tense nod, he left the entryway and made his way immediately to the family room. His stomach sank as he ducked into the cramped room, because Becca looked fucking bad. Her eyes were red and puffy, like she’d been crying, and the various members of their non-immediate family were all giving her a wide berth. Winifred, George, and David were all noticeably absent, although Amy was sitting on the love seat next to Aunt Ida, looking pretty irritated. Bucky didn’t spare her more than a glance. 

“Becs, what’s wrong?” he asked quietly, kneeling beside the chair she was curled up in. She turned as he knelt, looking surprised to see him.

“Didn’t you get my text?” she croaked. 

Bucky leaned closer, tossing a nervous look over his shoulder. “The last one I saw was about Aunt Liz,” he whispered. 

Becca seemed to crumble in on herself. “Bucky I’m really sorry,” she told him, sounding miserable.

“I-what? Is...did someone die?”

Now that he was paying attention, everyone did look a little tense. Aunt Ida kept sending him weird glances, and his cousin Aaron was openly staring at them. The look he got from Amy when their eyes met was practically lethal.

“I...I don’t know what I was thinking!” Becca whispered frantically. “I was just telling Aunt Liz about how you were doing in school, and I didn’t think she’d say anything to mom. They barely even speak to each other!”

The feeling that he was missing something huge evaporated in an instant. It was replaced with an irrational surge of anger. At his sister, at Aunt Liz, and Steve for one heart-stopping moment that would send him on a guilt spiral later, no doubt. 

“Rebecca,” he said, voice sharp. “What the fuck?”

Becca gave him a helpless look. “Bucky, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean for mom to find out before you were ready, I swear.”

He couldn’t listen to her excuses right now. Even though it was the last thing he wanted to do, Bucky knew he'd need to have a conversation with his parents. No doubt Winifred was in the kitchen, crying to Dad, or maybe David, or maybe Bubbe. She was probably going to give herself an aneurysm as she made wild assumptions about what was going on. By the time he made it to the kitchen, she’d probably be joylessly planning a shotgun wedding and writing him off forever. 

Damage control was the only thing on his mind right now. It was important that he gave this the most positive spin he could, and while it was the last thing he wanted to do, he’d need to set up a meeting for Steve and his mother as soon as possible. As long as Steve wasn't too...well, as long as Steve didn’t act like himself at all, maybe this wouldn’t all end in disaster.

Probably looking like a man on the way to his own execution, Bucky carefully crossed the family room, heading numbly towards the door into the kitchen. Aunt Ida looked like she wanted to stop him, but Bucky didn’t pause long enough for her to try. He pushed through the kitchen door, scanning the space for his mother.

Instead of Winifred, he was met with Aunt Liz, looking battle-worn and tired as she stood at his mother’s stove, stirring industriously and talking quietly to her husband, Ian. When she spotted him, she rolled her eyes.

“James, your mother is outside with your father having a cigarette. Go talk to her before the woman gives us all a fucking stroke.”

“What happened?” he asked, choosing to ignore her harsh words, along with the knowledge that he’d moved his mother to relapse and reach for a smoke. No doubt that would come up during the inevitable castigation. 

“Your sister told me about the baby. She said you were pretty nervous, and it wasn’t like I _knew_ you hadn’t informed your mother yet! Jamie, has she even _met_ the omega?”

Bucky huffed, striding past his aunt without another word. Without bothering to close the mudroom door, he hurried forward. He struggled for a moment with the back door, forgetting how the lock liked to stick, and he chose not to hear the irritated muttering happening behind him. When he finally got the door open, he was met with the wracking sobs of his mother. It sounded like David was speaking quietly to her, and he heard a few concerned harrumphs-probably his father. He stopped in his tracks, the door opened only a slit, and tried to hear exactly what they were saying. 

“Mom, please calm down. It’s not the end of the world,” David murmured. “Bucky’s not an idiot. He’s probably getting it all figured out.”

George made a skeptical sound in the back of his throat, and Bucky was surprised by just how much that hurt. What exactly was it about Bucky that had put his father under the impression that he was irresponsible? Did Bucky just project fuck-up energy?

Feeling resigned, Bucky pushed the door open fully. They turned all at once, leveling him with three painful glares.

“Mom,” Bucky sighed. It set Winifred off immediately into more sobs. David, who was crouched next to the lawn chair Winifred had no doubt collapsed dramatically onto, slung a protective arm around their mother’s shoulders. 

George stood, grim and silent, with his arms crossed over his broad chest. “James,” he intoned sternly. “You have something to tell us?”

It reminded him, sickeningly, of every lecture he’d gotten as a child, his mother overemotional and unable to speak in full sentences, and his father tight-lipped and gruff. David as usual was available for by-the-minute snarky comments.

Bucky nodded meekly. “Pop, you have to believe me. I was going to tell you guys soon.”

“How soon is soon?” David snapped. “The day after you came home from the hospital?”

“David,” George growled. “Don’t start. Go back inside and make sure everyone else is comfortable.”

“George!” Winifred cried. “This news involves David.”

George turned to his wife, gaze heavy and irritated. “He does not need to be out here making this harder for everyone, Winnie. We’ve got guests in the house and you’re out here falling apart.”

“Dad, don’t be rude,” David scoffed, but after smacking a quick kiss on Winifred’s cheek, he still made for the door. Bucky sidestepped out of the way, and his brother sent him a scathing glance before ducking into the house.

What followed was about half an hour of excruciating discussion.

George wanted to know what Bucky planned to do now that he had responsibilities outside of himself. Bucky reasserted the career plan his father had drilled into him since middle school. His studies were on track, he was doing well at his internship, and there was a job promised to him right after graduation. None of that had to change. George didn’t look happy, but he also wasn’t shouting. And he’d always known that his father wasn’t the largest obstacle. George had no observable opinion on grandchildren-he’d never bugged David about having children, never pushed Becca or Bucky on dates-and while Bucky knew he wasn’t happy that his youngest child was about to become a father before he’d graduated college, as long as _the plan_ was still on track, he couldn’t really complain. 

Winifred was, as always, the larger problem. 

“ _Who_ did you get pregnant?” she hissed after George had finished his taciturn interrogation and deemed his answers acceptable. 

“Becca didn’t-? Steve, Mom. It’s Steve.”

Winifred’s head had snapped at that, and she looked acutely distressed. “You said you weren’t dating Steve,” she reminded him, tone heavily accusatory. 

Without thinking, Bucky responded, “We weren’t when you asked. Or-it was really complicated.”

George frowned. “What’s complicated? Are you dating this boy or not?”

“I am!” Bucky lied. “We are dating. We’re together. And Steve wants to keep the baby, so…”

That set Winifred off once again, and she slumped unhappily in her chair for a few minutes, staring listlessly out at the back garden. 

George and Bucky exchanged an uncomfortable glance, both of them waiting for her to respond. It didn’t even have to be positive, really. A quiet Winifred Barnes was bizarre and unnerving. The last time she’d gone silent like this was when Becca had-unthinkingly-come out as queer last spring. Luckily, Winifred had recovered quickly, joining PFLAG and taking it all in stride. 

“Mom,” Bucky finally prompted, feeling sweaty and nauseous. 

This was the nightmare scenario, and he needed some feedback if he was going to deal with this in any meaningfully helpful way. At the very least, he needed to prepare Steve for the inevitable meeting.

Winifred gave a shaky little hum of acknowledgment. “You’re keeping the baby?”

Smiling nervously, Bucky nodded. “We are, mom. And Steve wants to meet you guys. We’ve just been super busy. I _swear_ , we were going to tell you this month.”

If his family were different, Bucky thought once again, lying to them like this might feel bad. The Barnes as they were, however, required a touch of dishonesty.

His mother seemed to steel herself, and she met Bucky’s gaze levelly. “I’m very disappointed in you, James Buchanan. You should have told your family as soon as you found out. And you’re going to bring that omega to meet us as soon as possible. Do you understand me?”

He nodded quickly. “Of course, Mom.”

She nodded briskly. “I mean, goodness! You made me cause a scene! Thanksgiving could have been absolutely ruined!”

Something in his chest relaxed a little at her typical dramatics. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

Winifred stood, angling herself towards George who swept her towards himself with a large arm. His parents crossed the back patio together, and Bucky rushed to open the back door for them. 

Now that the worst was over, he’d just have to have this conversation a few dozen more times.

***

Steve counted himself as one of the lucky ones. 

Current womb occupant excluded, Steve had never dealt with the intense familial melodrama he’d always seen depicted on NBC dramas. His mother was a single parent, but she’d never really dated. He had extended family that practically hated them, but they lived on another continent. The closest he’d ever gotten was when he and his mother went to Sam’s for the holidays and Darlene bickered tamely with her sisters-in-law. 

So Steve didn’t really have a frame of reference for Bucky’s family. Nat and Clint had made comments with more frequency than Bucky himself, but they were always vague. Becca had alluded to their mother’s odd temperament, but she was tight-lipped with her details.

None of it prepared him for the phone call he got on Thanksgiving night. 

Bucky was quiet and tense, and when Steve tried to push, Bucky only got worse.

“Steve, I’m sorry, but are you free during break?” he’d said as soon as Steve had picked up.

“Sure,” he offered easily. “Ma and I are going to veg out until Sunday. Why you want to come over or something? I’m sure Sam would be down to hang out.”

“No, I...no I mean, my parents want to meet you,” Bucky stammered. 

Which was weird, because Steve had still been operating under the impression that the Barnes’s thought Steve was just a new friend. Except…well, it was obvious what that meant.

“Why didn’t you let me know you were going to tell them?” Steve asked gently. “I would have been there if you needed it.”

Bucky gave a strained laugh. “If I had known about it beforehand, I would have.”

“Oh, Buck,” Steve groaned. “What happened?”

“I need to stop telling Becca things,” Bucky said.

And that was how Steve found himself standing outside of the Barnes family brownstone, shivering even despite the three layers he was wearing to stave off the biting November wind. 

Bucky had insisted on driving together, and Becca had latched onto that as the perfect time to ply them with numerous heartfelt apologies. Steve, more than bemused than anything, had accepted the apologies thoughtlessly. 

Bucky had as well, but Steve got the feeling it was more of an act than anything. Bucky was so tightly-strung that Steve had felt it from the passenger seat. It only got worse when they’d all clambered out of the car and up the steps to the building.

Steve tried to squash the instinctual irritation he felt when he realized that the place Bucky and Becca had grown up was probably worth like, millions. You didn’t get to live in a building in Park Slope for anything less than at least a mil, and this place was super nice. It put the cramped two-bedroom apartment he shared with his mother to shame. For one, Bucky probably hadn’t ever dealt with his heat cutting out every other year for more than a decade. Not to mention the pest issue, which persisted to this day no matter how thoroughly Sarah and Steve deep-cleaned from floor to ceiling. 

Becca turned just as Bucky was ringing the bell, grabbing Steve’s shoulder and giving him a frantic look. “She’s going to tell you that you can call her Freddie. This is a _lie_. Keep calling her Mrs. Barnes. She wants you to prove that you’re polite to a fault.”

Blinking, Steve gave a confused nod. “Mrs. Barnes, got it.”

“Don’t let my brother get under your skin,” Bucky offered. “And don’t worry about my dad if he seems pissed off. He’s always like that.”

“Jesus, you guys,” Steve laughed nervously. “You’re really worrying me right now.”

“And don’t curse,” Becca instructed sternly. “Especially not like that. We don’t need to remind her you’re a gentile.”

Steve snorted, gesturing at himself broadly. “I really doubt she’s going to forget it.”

“Yeah,” Becca admitted, smiling tightly. “You’ve really got the whole Aryan thing going.”

Bucky let out an outraged growl. “Bec!”

Steve shrugged. “She’s not wrong. Although I would like it noted that I’m Irish, and the British thought we were basically animals until like, the 90s.”

Before Bucky or Becca could respond to that, the door was yanked open abruptly. 

David Barnes-presumably-looked the trio over with a disdainful eye. “Come on, get in here before Mom has a panic attack.”

“What’s wrong now?” Becca asked. She sounded exhausted already.

“She tried to convince Amy to change. Says her dress gives the ‘wrong impression’,” David grumbled. “I don’t know what’s wrong. Mom _loves_ Amy.”

Steve took note of the look that passed between Bucky and Becca at those words, but David was already in the process of turning away. He headed back down the small entrance hall without bothering to wait for them. Bucky huffed a little but started on his outerwear without a word. 

Rushing to get his own coat off, Steve studied the small room. Pea-green carpet-not as bad looking as it could be-ran the length of the narrow staircase which presumably lead up to the bedrooms. Down the hall, Steve made out a couple of sofas through an open doorway, but where he might expect to see another door along the hallway, there was nothing. The entire layout seemed odd, but he didn’t question it. These old brownstones could have some bizarre layout choices. 

Becca probably noticed where his gaze was pointed, because as she hung her coat up on the hook by the door, she offered him a grin. “This place is a freaking warren. The kitchen and the dining room swing back around, but whoever built this didn’t bother putting a door out this way. God knows what we’d do if there was a fire.”

“Die painful deaths.” Bucky chimed in. The words had the ring of a long-time joke to them, and the siblings shared a laugh while Steve looked on in amusement. 

Once Steve and Bucky were out of their coats, Becca led them back. They passed through the empty living room without stopping, and Steve only got to take a cursory glance at some of the pictures on the wall. They were almost through when Steve spotted something that had him freezing in place.

Bucky didn’t seem to notice until he was almost halfway into the kitchen.

“Steve?” he called back, confused.

Steve, unable to take his eyes of the picture which had caught his attention, only let out a faint giggle. “Um, Buck?”

“What?” Bucky asked. He rushed back into the living, looking at the picture of the concerned sire-to-be. 

Steve tossed a quick look his way before gesturing jerkily at the absolutely ridiculous school photo he was entirely enraptured by. It was Bucky, looking younger and thinner and more confident, with the worst bleach job Steve had ever seen. His hair stuck up horrendously, like maybe he’d forgone a haircut in favor of a date with a blender. 

“What the hell is that?” Steve asked breathlessly. It was taking most of his control not to burst into manic giggles. Some of it was nerves, but not all of it. Bucky looked truly ridiculous as a blond. It made Steve hope their kid turned out brunette like its sire. Apparently, Barnes features were not meant for fair hair. 

If the look of embarrassment was anything to go by, Steve didn’t have to worry about Bucky dyeing his hair ever again. “God. I’ve asked her to take that down ever since we got those pictures.”

“Why would you do that?” Steve demanded. “This is amazing. I need a copy. I need to get it printed on a t-shirt!”

Bucky shook his head vehemently. “Not you too! Becca is constantly re-posting that monstrosity on Facebook. Every time people decide to celebrate National Siblings Day I see that damn picture!”

“Of course you do!” Steve laughed.

Becca peeked her head back into the living room, presumably to ask them why they were lallygagging, but her eyes lit up when she saw what Steve was looking at. “Oh, you caught it?”

“Becca, stop!’ Bucky pleaded. “Don’t start this again.”

“Do you want a copy?” she asked, ignoring Bucky completely.

Steve turned, striding forward to grasp Becca’s forearms. “I want that more than anything in the entire world!”

Becca let out a bright peal of laughter. “I have conditions,” she warned.

“Did I mention I wanted it more than anything? I meant that,” Steve assured her.

Bucky, looking distressed, tried to step in. “You can’t keep doing this Becca. Natasha tried to get a 16 x 20 print last year.”

Steve, feeling less nervous in light of their bantering, decided to take pity on Bucky. “My birthday is in July, Becca. You know what I want.”

With a serious nod, Becca turned to take her own look a the picture. She gave a fond smile. “Well, we really shouldn’t keep them waiting anymore. Although David will probably be thrilled to hear you enjoy the picture as much as we do.”

That was good news. If all it cost to get David on his side was a little gentle ribbing at Bucky’s past style mistakes, that felt fair. He hoped he wasn’t being naive about that, though. 

The good mood faded as they left Steve’s new favorite picture and passed through the kitchen. It was a little outdated, but not in the same way Steve’s kitchen was--the cabinets were vintage in a good way, rather than “vintage” in the way the landlords tried to spin ugly Formica and plywood garbage from the 70s. The appliances were also modern, something Sarah Rogers would probably die for. 

When Bucky had said his family had money, Steve hadn’t thought it meant _this_. It made him feel out of place and rumpled. He’d been careful to dress as nicely as he could, but between his financial reality and the changes to his body over the past few months (and his love of jeans that were probably too tight even when he wasn’t pregnant), his options were limited. It probably wouldn’t hurt to start looking into maternity clothes, but Steve wanted to leave his little nest egg for either a real emergency or for things that the baby would need directly. Even if the Barnes’s weren’t hurting for money, Steve couldn’t abide by being provided for like that. Besides, the Barnes's weren’t Bucky, who was as financially limited as any college student. Steve highly doubted Bucky liked asking his family for money, and wanted to avoid forcing that on him as long as he could. So, he was wearing the largest jeans he owned with no rips or stains, and the blue plaid shirt he wore to church when his mother bothered to drag him along. He wouldn’t be making any fashion headlines, but he looked respectable. Plus, the shirt did a good job of framing his stomach. Part of him felt like it was important to remind these people that he was pregnant-garner himself some sympathy points. 

Becca was the first into the dining room, and Bucky was close at her heels, which left Steve to take in the whole Barnes clan all at once. 

It was kind of eerie how similar they all looked-a little ironic, coming from him, considering how many times he and his mother got the same kind of comments-but when Steve’s eyes landed on George and Winifred Barnes, it was easy enough to see what Bucky got from who.

George was a huge man, although he was an inch or two shorter than Bucky, and he’d obviously given Bucky the little divot in his chin, along with those gray-blue eyes. Becca had the same eyes. They both had Winifred’s nose too. David was a little more pinched in the face than those three, something sharp that he got wholly from Winifred. And while George had a head of thinning, straight gray hair, Becca and Bucky both had Winifred’s loose brown curls, something David was missing, with his straight dark hair cut close to his head. 

Winifred stood as they entered the room fully. She was wringing her hands, eyes glued to Steve. “Hello, Steven,” she greeted him stiffly. Every person in the room turned to stare at him at once. Steve noted the only other person not related by blood-obviously David’s wife-but she only glanced at him, seemingly disinterested. He’d have to ask Bucky to tell him her name again because he’d already forgotten.

“Oh, um, hi Mrs. Barnes,” Steve replied, feeling uncomfortable. 

“Please!” Winifred exclaimed, voice edging towards frantic, “Please call me Freddie.”

“Okay,” Steve squeaked.

“Steve-” Bucky started, but George was already striding forward and sticking a large hand in Steve’s direction. 

He blinked, confused by the gesture before he remembered that normal people shook hands. Steve took the hand and let George kind of shake his arm for a second before the older man withdrew, turning away and sitting down awkwardly.

“Sit, please,” Winifred said. She gestured towards the opposite side of the table from herself, where three chairs sat clustered together, one at the end and the other two perpendicular to it. Becca, bless her heart, took the chair beside David’s wife. Bucky took the other, because he was equally kind, saving Steve from having to sit next to Winifred for the entire meal. 

“So,” Winifred said after they’d all settled. “How did you and Bucky meet?”

Steve glanced at Bucky, trying to take any queue from him, but the bastard only stared back at him with a pitiful look on his face.

“School,” Steve managed. “We um...I’m an art student.”

They all sat in painful silence for a beat, before Becca (quickly supplanting Bucky as his favorite Barnes at this point) spoke up. “You guys did those little art classes, right? The paint and sips?”

He tried to keep the bafflement off his face, choosing to believe that this story was Bucky’s attempt to make this dinner as smooth as possible. It made sense. He’d made it clear that his parents were super conventional. It probably wouldn’t win him any affection if they knew they’d met during a fight at a frat party. 

“Yeah. I’m part of the Art Student Union. I, uh. Well, I try to stay involved. And Nat and Clint try to keep Bucky busy.”

Bucky’s look of gratitude confirmed Steve’s suspicions. 

It weirded Steve out, the idea of having parents you couldn’t be honest with. He’d never been made to feel ashamed of his sex-life at home. Sarah wasn’t going out encouraging him to have one night stands, but she was a nurse, and she’d seen him educated and without trepidation when he’d started having sex in his freshman year of college. His ma was of the mind that making kids afraid to share things with their parents never ended well. Not that her parenting philosophy kept Steve from his current pregnancy status. But at least Steve had only been reasonably nervous to confide in her-not like Bucky, whose reluctance to tell his parents about the incoming child had constructed this dinner in the first place. 

“You going into teaching?” George asked, looking put off by the thought.

Steve bristled immediately. He’d gotten that question constantly for the entirety of his college career-a combination of designation stereotypes about what jobs omegas could do and plain old confusion about majoring in art making teaching the only path forward that most people saw. It never failed to piss him off.

“No, actually,” he answered shortly. “I’m actually trying to break into the art scene.”

If possible, that answer only seemed to make George look even stiffer. The middle-aged alpha frowned and turned his heavy gaze on Bucky. “You didn’t tell us he was an _artist_.” 

“He’s an art major, dad,” Becca pointed out. “What did you think that meant?”

“I thought he was going into teaching,” George muttered. “You know how slim the pickings are as an artist, right boy?”

“Yes.” Steve said. He didn’t bother going on. 

Face flushing slightly, George leaned over the table and glared at Steve. “How do you expect to make any money?”

Winifred batted at her husband's arm and offered the table a slightly unhinged smile. “Oh, George, don’t be so hard on him. He can’t exactly work a real job when the baby comes. Painting sounds like an amazing hobby. You know, Steve, when I had David I became a homemaker too!”

“I’m _not_ -” Steve began, voice hot with rage. 

Bucky cut him off quickly. “Dad, Steve’s really talented. He’s going to be in an exhibition with the Rambeau Foundation. That’s supposed to be an amazing networking thing, right Steve?” he sounded pleading, and Steve tried to reign himself in. 

He’d told Bucky he’d try to make this as easy for them as possible, hadn’t he? Nothing that Bucky’s parents said or did had to have a lasting impact on either his life or the life of his child. Best to make nice.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Last year the New York Times did a really good write up on the finalists. Tony Stark apparently bought a painting from a student from CUNY.”

George looked slightly mollified at that, although the mention of Tony Stark seemed to make him pucker up quite a bit. “Stark’s have always liked to throw their money around, haven’t they?” he muttered.

Now there was a topic that Steve could agree with him on. Tony Stark was just the kind of person Steve loved to hate, wasting his vast wealth on hoarding art and flying himself all over the country. Not to mention the noxious effect his company’s lobbying had had on New York City itself. He couldn’t even count on one hand the number of demonstrations he’d attended protesting StarkTech’s shady labor practices.

“I wouldn’t let Tony Stark buy my art if he offered me a billion dollars,” Steve promised George. 

That startled a laugh out of the table, and Steve had to suppress the instinct to preen. Bucky looked over the moon.

“Dad hates Stark,” Becca piped up helpfully. “He bought dad’s hospital and privatized the whole thing.”

“Almost lost all my best staff,” George seethed. “Don’t know how those types get off.”

“That almost happened at my Ma’s hospital,” Steve said. “Deal fell through, luckily.”

Winifred practically vibrated out of her chair at that. “Oh, is your mother in healthcare? That’s amazing! Where does she work?”

Steve flushed. “Uh, she’s a nursing supervisor at NYC Health in Bed-Stuy.”

It felt odd to tout her position like that. Sarah Rogers had been a staff nurse for decades, working grueling nights and picking up shifts wherever she could for most of his childhood. It felt nice, flushing him with pride to know that she was finally getting the respect and money she deserved, but it was still so new to him. 

Still, George looked quietly approving of this information. Steve would have reveled in that if not for his next question. “Dam or sire?”

The room went quiet in an instant. Steve could practically hear the blood leave Bucky’s face.

It took all he had not to react too much. Steve just had to remind himself that this whole thing was about playing nice. It was just the means with which he’d avoid seriously pissing off the future grandparents of his child. Which was important right now, in a way it hadn’t been before. 

He sure was putting up with a lot of shit for a peach sized little parasite he was still on the fence about. 

It struck him that he was quickly picking his side of the fence as the days flew by, hence his relatively calm next words. “Dam. She’s my dam.”

“Do you and Bucky plan on getting married?” David cut in. The question seemed to have burst out of his mouth, judging by the look of strain on his face. His wife tossed him an exasperated look but didn’t jump in to soften the blow. Instead, she turned a sharp-eyed look on Steve.

This baby was going to owe him big time. 

He exchanged a helpless look with Bucky.

Bucky scowled. “David lay off.”

“You’re both so young,” Winifred fretted, seemingly in agreement. “We’re so thrilled to be grandparents, but I don’t think you should rush into anything like marriage right now.”

Bucky looked surprised by her words, and Steve couldn’t help nudging at his foot under the table. The soft look that was turned on him made him blush. 

He was just happy that this wasn’t turning into the shit storm he’d been promised. By no means was this going _well_ , but there was no yelling. He’d heavily suspected there would be yelling. 

***

He was fucking floored.

The dinner had gone... _fine_. 

Or, well, it had gone fine in comparison to Bucky’s initial predictions which were admittedly nightmarish. 

There’d been multiple hiccups (he didn’t know if Steve was pretending not to remember Amy’s name or if he was serious) but it had honestly been _fine_. All the rants he’d expected from Steve were left unsaid, and Winifred inexplicably _loved_ him. When they’d headed into the family room after eating his mother’s soggy rendition of lasagna, she kept leaning out of her chair with a look of interest in her eyes and her hands outstretched, like she might try to cop a feel of Steve’s belly. Mercy of mercies, she restrained herself, but Bucky could tell she’d moved on from her dismay and headed firmly toward excitement at the prospect of being a grandmother. 

David was too sulky to cause much trouble, only pushing the marriage issue once more before George shut him down with a firm look. 

That was another thing! Winifred, bless her heart, wasn’t making any passive-aggressive comments about Steve’s suitability as a mate and a spouse. She wasn’t hinting at the beauty of the Jewish faith, wasn’t heavy-handedly pushing for the future bar/bat mitzvah of the baby. Of course, she’d made an uncomfortable face when Steve confirmed that he was Catholic, but that was it. 

It was like Bucky had fallen asleep and woken up in a dream world where his family wasn’t disgustingly overbearing and passive-aggressive. It made absolutely no sense. 

The high carried him all the way through the rest of the night. Becca, masochist that she was, caved to Winifred’s pressure to stay the night. That meant that when Steve and Bucky climbed into his car at about ten, they were finally alone.

The car was quiet as he pulled off his parent’s street, but after a few minutes of driving, Steve turned slightly in his seat. Bucky felt his eyes on his skin like a physical touch, barely repressing a shiver. 

“What’s up?” he asked, feeling hesitant and tender. He caught Steve’s grin from the corner of his eye.

“I honestly thought you were exaggerating about them,” Steve admitted. “But they sure are something, huh?”

Bucky snorted. “If you thought that was bad, you’re delusional. That was the minor leagues, pal.”

The blond was quiet for another moment. Bucky glanced at him, now a touch nervous, but Steve didn’t look overly distressed at the news. 

“No offense, but I kind of get why you’d want to avoid them,” Steve finally said. “They’ve uh...definitely had an impact on the way you are with other people.”

He gave a thoughtful hum at that. Bruce had made a similar comment before, about his anxiety being tied to his family's dysfunctional communication style-or lack thereof. He agreed, honestly. Who wouldn’t be anxious after growing up with Winifred and George Barnes as parents? At this point, he was just trying to deal with that as best he could.

“I love them,” Bucky began because he felt it was important to preface his words. “I really do love them, but we… I don’t want to be that kind of parent. I want our kid to have someone they don’t have to brace themself for, you know?”

Steve’s hand flashed out, and he gripped at Bucky’s shoulder with a surprising amount of strength. “Buck, I’m nervous as hell, but if I had to pick someone to be the father of my child, I don’t know that I’d pick someone else.”

The words struck him right in the chest, and Bucky turned and offered Steve a soft smile. “Thank you,” he breathed. 

Steve nodded.

“I mean, considering the other candidates were primarily frat guys, I think I lucked out,” he joked. 

Bucky laughed. “You never know, Stevie. Everyone’s got hidden depths.”

“I’m not trying to descend the emotional equivalent of the Mariana’s Trench here, Buck.”

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna quit telling you guys what's coming up because I always end up having to cut or move stuff around. (But one small hint: Presents!)
> 
> Also, sorry about the larger gap between chapters, but I just started a new job! I finally get to do something in my chosen field, assisting in a Special Education classroom. If you know anything about special education, you understand that I'm absolutely exhausted lately.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought!


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